


Just What I Needed ((when I was older))

by Roswyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Hermione Granger, Bisexual Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Depressed Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley Friendship, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Draco Malfoy is a Little Shit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Harry Potter is So Done, Harry Potter is a bean, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, I love that boy so much, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Narcissa Black Malfoy is a Good Parent, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Pining Draco Malfoy, Prisoner Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Ron Weasley is a sweetheart, Slavery, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Ron Weasley, The Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter) is Terrible, eventually, many misunderstandings, prisonerfic, slavefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 54,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roswyn/pseuds/Roswyn
Summary: After the war against You-Know-Who, Harry Potter has fallen into depression, and the Ministry of Magic is up to no good, as usual. As part of their Prisoner Rehabilitation Program, the former Death Eater Draco Malfoy, now Prisoner #6583-9K, is given over to Harry Potter's custody.Draco expects being in Potter’s custody will be close to hell on earth, and Harry is barely keeping himself afloat, to say nothing of now caring for his old enemy.They both believe their worst nightmare has come true, but it might end up being just what they needed.(Previously titled 'when I was older')
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 334
Kudos: 515





	1. In which Harry Potter gets a surprise visit

**Author's Note:**

> There's a hundred stories like this already, but in a lot of them either Draco is so traumatized he feels like a completely different person, or Harry is mean to him, at least at first, and I feel like that just doesn't fit his character. So this is my attempt to keep them in character as much as possible. 
> 
> This story is a very slow burn, it's basically just Harry and Draco messing around and being gay in the House of Black together, so if that's what you want to read then climb onboard. 
> 
> Finally, I've gotten a lot of hate that Draco's redemption arc is poorly written, which I understand, it's my first time writing one and I'm focusing in this story a lot more on healing from trauma and finding the inspiration to move past your mistakes, so if you have strong feelings about Draco's character or find his behavior in canon unforgivable then this probably isn't the fic for you. 
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

It was 6 am on a Friday when the Aurors knocked on Harry’s door, rousing him from a nightmare wherein he was back at the Dursley’s house, and Vernon was banging furiously on the door of his cupboard.

Harry woke with a start and rolled off the couch, hitting the floor. His face was pressed into the musty, tattered carpet, and he rolled over with a groan.

“Coming,” he shouted, searching the coffee table with a frantic hand for his glasses, sending boxes of takeout and empty Styrofoam cups flying.

He found them, tucked under a book on curses he’d been reading last night, and scrambled up from the floor.

He opened the door to a very odd sight indeed. Two Aurors, dressed in their ministry robes, holding a tattered looking man between them. Harry was reminded of Sirius Black, if Sirius had been in the habit of bleaching his hair Marilyn Monroe blond.

“Mr. Potter,” the Auror on the left said, a tall, skinny man with dark hair. “We’ve come on direct orders from the ministry, to deliver prisoner #6583-9K into your custody, as agreed.” He held up a remarkably official-seeming document with a flourish.

“Wha…” Harry said sleepily, readjusting his glasses and taking another look at…prisoner #6583-9K. As he did, the man looked straight back up at Harry.

Recognition hit him like a punch in the gut. Or a boot heel to the face.

Malfoy.

A bit more bedraggled and sickly, surely, but Harry would know those ice blue eyes anywhere.

Wide-awake, Harry folded his arms. How dare they. How dare the ministry show up at his house—when he’d made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with them—and drag his enemy onto his doorstep? And into his _custody_?

“Let me see that,” Harry demanded, snatching the document from the Auror’s thin fingers. He skimmed it for a moment—prisoner rehabilitation program—prisoner #6583-9K, formerly referred to as Draco Lucius Malfoy—Custody of Harry James Potter, by legal agreement filed with the Wizengamot—He’d read enough. He all but threw the parchment back at the Auror.

“I don’t know what this mess is, but it’s nothing I want anything to do with.” He began to shut the door, but the other Auror, this one heavyset and ginger, stuck his foot into the doorjamb.

“Mr. Potter--” he began.

“Whatever you’re about to say next, it had better be ‘We’re very sorry we wasted your time, have a lovely day,’” Harry interrupted.

“But…you agreed, sir,” the skinny Auror said.

“I did what?” Harry spat.

The Auror held up the half-crumpled parchment Harry had returned to him. He tapped a line at the bottom.

Harry squinted at what was, admittedly, a very near duplicate of his signature.

“We sent the papers to you, and they were returned, signed and filed, we didn’t—“

“Well there must have been some kind of mistake. Wherever you found that heap of self-aggrandizing dragon dung, take him back.”

At this, Malfoy looked up again. “Self-aggrandizing?” His voice was a little hoarse, but it still had echoes of his signature drawl. “Rich, coming from ‘The Boy Who Lived’ himself.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

The heavyset Auror punched Malfoy in the gut, hard.

“Oy,” said Harry, as Malfoy doubled over, coughing. Sure, he and Draco were far from friends, but Malfoy was bound with what looked like the heaviest chains Azkaban could afford. Surely there was no need to be hitting him?

But before Harry could continue, Malfoy straightened up and offered him a familiar smirk that made _Harry_ want to punch him.

“Ah, I see. The idea of having Draco Malfoy as your personal prisoner sounded fine and dandy on paper, but now that you’re looking me in the eyes, you’re getting cold feet.”

The Auror smacked Malfoy upside the head this time, but it didn’t faze him.

“Aw, poor widdle Harry Potter, scared of his classmate. I thought you defeated Lord Voldemort? What’s the matter? Gone soft with your age?” He looked Harry up and down. “Looking a little worse for wear, aren’t you? Still getting your clothes out of the Weasley’s laundry?”

“I’m not _scared,_ ” Harry gritted out despite himself, resisting the urge to straighten his loose-fitting nightshirt, which he now realized was hanging off one shoulder.

“It’s alright,” Malfoy drawled. “I’ll just go back to my cozy little cell, get some rest.” He turned to the heavyset Auror next to him. “Say, do you think I could have a bottle of wine delivered? This weekend is promising to be terribly more boring than expected—“

The Auror punched Malfoy in the face and shoved him to his knees on the dry leaves covering Harry’s doormat. “When you get back to Azkaban, we’re going to have a little talk about your continuing attitude problem.”

Malfoy, despite the blood streaming from his nose, just snickered. “Can’t wait.”

Harry knew when he was being wound up. What he didn’t know was why. He was aware Azkaban was far from “cozy,” but Draco was clearly still as proud as ever. Why would he be as good as _daring_ Harry to take custody of him? Surely being the prisoner of his most hated rival would be worse than a stint in prison?

As Malfoy continued to argue with the Auror, Harry glanced down and studied him, looking past his initial shock of recognition. Malfoy looked…awful. His eyes were sunken and glassy, the bones in his wrist and neck sticking out beneath his tattered shirt, and his skin was pale, pale as parchment and littered with dark, startling bruises like blotches of ink. He’d obviously been abused, and underfed, and he looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in years. But the Malfoy he knew would probably prefer that to being within a hundred miles of Harry Potter.

There had to be something more. And as much as Harry despised him…Malfoy had been in that hell for what…almost five years now? For crimes he’d committed as a scared, foolish teenager. Malfoy was never a great person—he was a selfish, bullying little wannabe neo-Nazi, in Harry’s opinion—but he didn’t deserve this.

“Fine,” Harry said finally.

The two Aurors, engrossed in their argument with Malfoy, looked up in surprise. Malfoy didn’t look at Harry, but there was a small smile of triumph playing on his lips.

“Fine, I’ll take him.”

“Wonderful,” said the skinny Auror, looking pleased to be doing less paperwork. The heavyset Auror aimed one last kick at Malfoy.

“Oy,” said Harry, before the Auror could land his blow. “He’s in my custody now, right? By my reckoning, that means if anybody’s kicking him, it’ll be me.”

The Auror crossed his arms and glared childishly, while his skinnier coworker handed the parchment over to Harry, with a quill.

“If you’ll just sign here at the bottom, to finalize the delivery.”

Harry signed on the small line that had appeared at the bottom, and handed the parchment over. The Auror handed him a leather briefcase, thanked him for his time, and then they were gone, the thickset Auror giving Malfoy one last glare over his shoulder. Harry understood the sentiment.

He looked down at his new prisoner. “What now?”

“Now?” Malfoy looked back at him, with a rather sick smirk. “Now the fun begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since I've read these books, so apologies for any errors.  
> Tell me if you liked it? I've noticed in a lot of works of this type, Harry and Draco don't really maintain their personalities, I like it when they're both sassy it creates a cute dynamic. Anyway, please tell me what you thought, literally good, bad, ugly, doesn't matter, I live for comments.  
> More coming soon


	2. In which Draco Malfoy is confused and sarcastic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd post the second chapter, since I already had it written.

The ride to Harry Potter’s house had been long, but this moment was even longer. Draco Malfoy shifted his weight from foot to foot in the entryway of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. What was Potter playing at, he wondered, requesting him specifically from the program, and then rejecting him when he got there? Did he just want to give Draco a moment of hope, a glimpse of sunshine, before sending him back to Azkaban? To _them_? Draco felt his stomach turn over for the hundredth time that day. At least he’d thought quickly enough to twist Potter’s motives, whatever they were, into taking him into custody. What curse would Potter start with first? _Sectumsempra_? Or would he go straight to _Crucio_?

What was he thinking? Draco reminded himself. Potter was a Gryffindor, he’d probably forget he possessed a wand at all and just punch Draco in the face. Or kick him. Potter’s line from the front doorstep floated back into his head. _If anybody’s kicking him, it’ll be me._ Despite his earlier refusal, Potter was clearly looking forward to this.

If Potter wanted to do any kicking, he’d have to locate his shoes first, Draco thought with a smirk, eyeing the piles of rubbish and clutter littering the hallway. What _was_ taking Potter so long? Was he trying to find his wand from whatever pile of dirty laundry he’d left it in?

Some fresh blood trickled down Draco’s upper lip into his mouth, and he tried to reach up to wipe it away, only succeeding in yanking on his raw wrist in the manacles. His hands were chained behind his back, and to his neck and feet. He could barely walk, let alone reach his face. Or raise an arm to defend himself.

What in the hell was Potter doing? He wondered yet again, feeling chills rising on his arms. Was he preparing some sort of infernal Muggle torture device?

Draco’s courage was beginning to leave him the more he stood in the dismal corridor of the chilly house. He could feel himself shivering in the thin, tattered clothes, and not entirely from the cold.

Draco supposed the Chosen One still hadn’t managed to work a wizard heater. He was raised by Muggles, after all. The thought didn’t bring much amusement with it. Potter owned a bloody house. And Draco owned nothing. And now, Potter as good as owned _him._ Potter always managed to do just a little bit better than he was, and to this day, though he’d never admit it, it still burned him.

While Draco was still dwelling on these less than comforting thoughts, Potter came back around the corner. His bangs were a little wet, glasses a little askew, and he’d put on some hideous gray Muggle jumper.

Potter approached Draco, giving him a dark look, and then reached abruptly upwards towards his face.

Draco flinched back, despite himself.

“It’s just a rag,” Potter said, holding up the object. He reached towards Draco’s face again, and this time Draco forced himself to hold still, not wanting to offer Potter any more free amusement. He was expecting Potter to shove the rag into his mouth, but instead, Potter began to gently dab at the blood still trickling from Draco’s nose.

Draco pulled away, intentionally this time. “What are you doing, Potter? Playing nurse?”

Potter stepped back with a frown. “What are you playing at, then?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Draco replied coldly.

“That little performance back there, trying to get a rise out of me. Why’d you do that?”

“Did I hurt your feelings?” Draco asked, managing to maintain his mocking, confident tone.

“Fine, don’t answer me.” Potter stepped forward again, and Draco took a sharp step back, shoulders slamming into the wall. He cursed himself. He’d sworn on his pride he wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction of seeing him scared.

Potter hesitated. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, and the sudden softness in his voice was worse than a shout.

“Is that so?” Draco shot his new captor a glare of bald hate.

“Not exactly a fair fight,” Potter muttered. He looked uncomfortable. Draco wondered if his earlier assessment had been correct, and Potter had gotten cold feet on his plan of revenge upon seeing him.

“Don’t get me wrong, I hate you,” Potter continued. “But I’m not the type of guy to…break someone’s damn nose when they can’t defend themselves.”

Draco smirked, remembering the moment in the Hogwarts Express in their sixth year. “Still bitter about that, are you? I’m not the one who was eavesdropping like a pathetic little first year spying on their crush.”

“I was talking about the Auror, actually,” said Harry. “But now that you mention it, yeah, I am a little bitter about you stomping on my face.”

Draco belatedly thought better of bringing that particular encounter up, given that their roles were reversed. More than reversed. Potter had been stuck for as long as the _Petrificus Totalus_ held, but Draco was at Potter’s mercy for the foreseeable future, however brief it ended up being. Potter looked like he was barely keeping himself alive at the moment. The years had not been good to the Chosen One, evidently. Briefly, Draco wondered why, before sternly reminding himself he didn’t care.

“Go on then,” Draco said, with a bravado he did not feel. “If you’re bitter, why don’t you do something about it?”

Harry’s other hand moved in his pocket, and Draco knew it was grasping his wand.

“Hm, so you’ve recalled you own a wand after all,” Draco drawled.

Potter’s mouth was a firm line of anger. “Do you really think it’s smart to be testing me? After everything you’ve done?”

“Oh, not smart perhaps. But vastly entertaining.”

“You arrogant little git—“ Potter cut himself off. “You know what? Forget it. Whatever game you’re playing, I refuse to join in.”

“Cause you know whatever game you played against me…” Draco forced a smirking smile onto his face. “You wouldn’t win.”

Potter just stared back at him, and finally tucked the bloody rag into a pocket of the almost equally filthy jumper. “Come on,” he said, turned, and began walking away.

Draco struggled to keep up in the chains, picking his way through the filthy living room. Take out boxes, open books, empty coffee mugs and muggle clothing were all piled around the room, along with an impressive collection of empty potions bottles in the corner, among empty bottles with labels Draco didn’t recognize, but assumed were some type of Muggle sprits. Seems the Chosen One had picked up a habit in the post-war years. Not that Draco could blame him. He would have too, if he could.

Potter turned, and seeing Draco far behind him, turned back. And pulled out his wand.

They were standing face to face now. Draco stared at the raised wand and then into his jailer’s eyes, blood running cold. Those eyes were just as brilliant and green as he remembered. And whatever Potter wanted to do to him, it was about to begin.

There was a long, tense moment of silence. Draco could hear his own heart thumping in his chest.

“Sorry,” Potter muttered finally. “Can’t uh…think of the spell.”

“ _Crucio_?” Draco asked, keeping his voice carefully casual.

Potter just rolled his eyes and raised his wand higher. Draco tensed, steeled himself.

“ _Alohomora_!”

The chains around Draco rattled, but held fast.

“That’s for doors, you dimwit.”

“It works on locks,” Potter said defensively, gesturing at the heavy locks on Draco’s ankles.

“Not these locks.”

“What will work then, if you’re so smart?”

“A…key?” Draco drawled.

Potter folded his arms. “I don’t remember getting one.”

“Well, maybe it was in that briefcase? If you can remember where you threw it in your rubbish dump of a house.”

“You are such a twat,” Potter said, almost absentmindedly. He ran a hand through his hair, looking around. “ _Accio_ briefcase,” he said finally. The briefcase flew from what was probably the kitchen, by the sound of shattering china, and into Potter’s outstretched hand. Potter set it on the ground and knelt beside it, flinging parchment out until he finally came across a heavy iron key.

“Alright, this oughtta do it,” he said, fitting the key into the lock and turning. The chains around Draco’s ankles clattered off. Potter unlocked Draco’s hands and neck next, and Draco was too relieved to make any snarky comments. He rubbed his wrists gingerly. They stung in the cold air, but at least the manacles weren’t constantly cutting them anymore. The glowing magic runes around his wrists burned for a second, and then faded pale.

Draco could feel a _thank you_ trying to come out of his mouth, and clenched his jaw.

Instead, he directed his attention to the empty bottles. “Thought you didn’t like Potions, Potter.”

“Yeah, well…” Potter ran his hand through his hair again. “Turns out they’re a lot more fun to drink than to make.”

“And what does the oh-so-special Boy Who Lived have to be drinking about?”

Potter shrugged. “Nothing, really. Trouble’s over, now. I guess. Until you showed up.”

Malfoy could smell a deflection from a mile off, but he reminded himself that he didn’t care. Whatever stupid little crush he’d had on the Potter boy way back in the robe shop, it was long gone, he reminded himself. They were enemies now, and he would do well to be wary. Although worrying after his captor’s mental state might not be the worst idea in the world. Considering.

“Trouble has a way of following you though, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I…I guess it does.” Potter readjusted his glasses and his jumper. “Um, come on, now that you can walk.”

Potter was walking away again, and Draco followed him, wondering if the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had a dungeon.

He suspected, knowing the Black family, that it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far. Leave a comment?


	3. In which Harry makes a bologna sandwich and awkward small talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready to witness some of the most awkward kitchen table small talk you've ever seen lol

Harry walked down the stairs to the kitchen, turning back at the bottom to check if Malfoy was following him. Malfoy was picking his way down the stairs, slowly, almost painfully, although it didn’t show on his face. As he stepped into the light from the kitchen’s open door, Harry was struck again by how pale he looked. His skin looked ashen beneath a thin coating of dirt, his blond hair limp and overgrown, hanging to his shoulders and over his face as he looked down to watch his steps.

Every time Harry studied Malfoy, he saw some new injury that made his stomach turn. Malfoy’s torn shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and Harry could see half-healed cuts on his chest, along with heavy bruises and abraded skin on his neck.

Malfoy was shivering, Harry realized. Harry had become accustomed to it, but the house was freezing, and he still couldn’t make the damn heater work.

Without thinking, Harry pulled off his jumper and held it out. “Here. Sorry it’s so cold.”

Malfoy stared at the jumper in silence for a long moment.

“What?” Harry asked tiredly. “Let me guess, it’s too dirty for your standards? You’d prefer to freeze to death?”

“No, I just…” Malfoy reached out slowly, and touched the cloth, running his fingers over it, face unreadable. Finally, he took it and pulled it over his head, slipping his arms through it with a wince.

“It’s um…It’s warm. Thanks.” Malfoy sounded like he choked a little on the words, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity to them.

Harry considered belatedly it had been a rather intimate thing to do, giving Malfoy his own clothes to wear, but it had seemed natural to him at the time. He was just making all this up as he went along, sue him.

Unable to conjure a way to make the situation less awkward, Harry simply turned, walked into the kitchen, and, ignoring the broken dishes on the floor, buried his head in the refrigerator. It was…sparse. He realized he hadn’t gone grocery shopping in a couple weeks. There was nothing but pickles, mustard, bologna, and some mayonnaise that had gone off long ago. Thankfully, he still had some bread in the freezer, and so he pulled it out and began making a sandwich. Malfoy hovered in the doorway, watching him.

“Did you want to have a seat?” Harry asked, glancing at the kitchen table.

Malfoy obliged him, slowly pulling out a chair and sitting down. He picked up the package of bologna Harry had set on the table.

“What the bloody hell is bull-ogg-nah?” he asked. “Some kind of dog food?”

“It’s ‘baloney,’” Harry corrected. “And no, it’s for people.”

“For Muggles, I’m guessing.” Draco opened the package and hoisted a slice of bologna into the air with the tips of his fingers. “It looks like someone ground up the wrong end of a rat and turned it into a meat pancake.”

Harry sighed in exasperation, setting a completed sandwich on a plate and shoving it towards Malfoy. “Well, it’s all I have, at the moment. Do you want it, or not?”

“It’s for me?” Malfoy looked honestly surprised.

“Well, uh, you look like you haven’t eaten in…days, so yeah.”

Malfoy picked the sandwich up, turned it over. “That’s cause I haven’t.” He chuckled to himself, bitterly. “Yeah, I know, poor little rich boy, had to go a couple days without eating.”

“That’s awful,” Harry said, shocked by Malfoy’s quick dismissal of his own suffering. He remembered what it felt like to be locked away and starving. He pushed the memories down again. “You couldn’t have slept much, either.”

“Don’t pretend like you care, Potter,” Malfoy muttered, and bit into the sandwich, chewing carefully.

“How’s the bull-ogg-nah?” Harry asked, trying to relieve a little of the tension.

“Better than whatever slop they’re serving in Azkaban, I’ll give it that.” He looked back up at Harry. “Thanks, uh, for the food. And the jumper. You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

“What am I going to do? Let you starve to death?”

Malfoy shrugged. “You could, if you wanted to.”

“Surely, just cause you’re a…a prisoner, I couldn’t just let you die.”

Malfoy tucked the last of the sandwich into his mouth, brushed his hands off. “You didn’t read any of those documents, did you?” he asked, through a mouthful of bread.

Harry shook his head.

"Let’s just say…” Malfoy swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at Harry through his overgrown bangs. “Whatever you’re thinking of…if you wanted to, you could.”

“But that’s…irresponsible, I mean, isn’t the Ministry supposed to protect people in their custody?”

“I’m not in their custody. I’m in yours.”

They shared a long, significant look, until Harry finally looked away.

“And besides…” Malfoy’s voice was quiet. “It’s not like anyone gives a damn what happens to me.”

Harry was struck by a thought. “Surely your mother would.”

Malfoy’s eyes had turned very, very cold.

“Do you know where she is?” Harry asked.

“What the hell do you want with my mother, Potter?”

“Nothing, I just…” Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “I was just worried, that’s all.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you’re real concerned.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. This conversation kept going in the worst directions. Not that Harry had ever been very good at saying the right thing. His number one talent seemed to be putting his foot in his mouth. He distracted himself from the tension that had settled over the room by pouring himself a drink. He sat down at the table with it, and found Malfoy watching him intently.

“What are you looking at?” Harry all but snapped. He was already sick of having Malfoy in his house, and it hadn’t even been an hour.

“A potions master in the making, it would seem,” Malfoy said sardonically.

“Hilarious,” Harry replied, and drained the glass. He went to pour another, and then paused. “I’m guessing you don’t want one?”

Malfoy was running his fingers through his hair, seemingly trying to untangle it. He paused, and looked up. “Well…I’d take a glass of water, if you…if you don’t mind.”

Harry rose, cursing himself for an idiot—Malfoy must be thirsty—and got down a glass to fill it from the tap. He pushed it into Malfoy’s shaking fingers.

“Still cold?” Harry asked, as Malfoy drained the glass.

Malfoy set the glass down and hid his hands in his lap. “I’m fine.”

“I have one of those little Muggle space heaters, I could set one up.”

“’Muggle’ seems to be the operative word around here,” Malfoy said.

Harry shrugged. “I’m rubbish at charms.”

“Why don’t you get that nerdy friend of yours to help?”

“Her name’s Hermione, and watch how you talk about her.” Harry’s fingers were gripping his glass a little too tightly.

“Keep your shirt on, I’m not about to pull out the M-word. I’m not that suicidal.” He smirked. “Not yet, at least.” He looked back up at Harry. “Anyway, Hermione. Why don’t you ask her?”

Harry swirled the liquor in his glass, thinking of his last conversation with Hermione. _I’m worried about you, Harry. We both are._

“You two not talking?”

“You ever consider, Malfoy,” Harry said, standing, “That some things are just none of your business?”

Malfoy was tense again, jaw clenched, shoulders rounded. “You ever consider my mother is none of your business?”

Two and two finally clicked in Harry’s mind. He’d offended Malfoy, perhaps even deeply worried him, by asking about Narcissa, and now Malfoy was getting a rise out of him, again. He’d forgotten how manipulative Malfoy could be.

“You’re right. I’m sorry I said anything, okay? Just…Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?”

Malfoy shrugged, suddenly casual once again. “Sure.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling exhausted. He could only imagine how Malfoy must feel. “You should get some rest.”

“Probably should.” Malfoy sounded wary.

“Come on, I’ll find you a room.”

Malfoy simply raised an eyebrow in response, but he rose and followed Harry back up the stairs. Harry climbed them slower this time, since Malfoy was obviously in pain. Once they’d made it to the second floor, he turned to the first room on the left.

“Here, this is…probably the cleanest one.”

“I’d hate to see dirty,” Malfoy muttered, but his eyes were already fixed on the dusty bed like a long-lost lover. He began to walk towards it.

“Wait,” Harry stammered out.

Malfoy turned, looking as tense as he could manage to be with how exhausted he clearly was. He looked like he was ready to drop.

“Could I at least…fix your nose? I know a spell.” This time, at least, he remembered to state his intentions before pulling out his wand and sticking it in Malfoy’s face.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Malfoy said carefully. “But as I said, you can do as you wish.”

Harry hovered uncertainly for a moment. Malfoy was so injured; he wanted to do _something_ for him. The broken nose had seemed the easiest place to start. But it was Malfoy’s face, and if he’d rather keep it bloody and broken than have Harry waving a wand at him, Harry couldn’t exactly blame him.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Get some sleep, then.”

“Here’s to hoping I die before I wake,” Malfoy said, already crawling under the faded duvet.

After that worrying statement, Harry had half a mind to check the room for sharp objects, but he decided Malfoy deserved to be alone by now. So instead, he shot a flippant “Sweet dreams,” over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him. Goddamn, he was terrible at this.

Whatever ministry slime had forged Harry’s signature on that bloody document, he was going to find them—and make their life as miserable as they had made his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is so awkward in this, haha. It was almost painful to write.  
> Hope you enjoyed! If you have anything specific you want to see, tell me.  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. In which Draco gets some sleep, but no rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me a little longer than I expected to post, I rewrote a lot of it. It ended up being the longest chapter yet though, so hopefully you enjoy!

Draco rolled over onto his back under the duvet, grimacing as all his injuries burned at once, and stared up at the ceiling. He’d been lying here for what had to have been hours, and he couldn’t seem to catch more than five consecutive minutes of sleep. Whenever he began to drift off, he’d start awake, thinking he heard a rattling breath or the footstep of an Auror. And when he did manage to sleep for a few moments, he was shaken awake by a nightmare he could only half remember, unable to breathe.

Staring up at the cobwebs on the ceiling, Draco finally allowed his thoughts to wander back to Potter. Potter, whose jumper he was currently wearing. As dirty as it looked, it didn’t smell bad. Like coffee, and cheap aftershave, and something else, something warm that Draco couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had enough on his mind, but his thoughts kept circling back to that moment, of Harry giving him a sweater to wear. What in Merlin’s beard could have possessed him to do such a thing?

Potter had admitted only a few minutes earlier that he hated Draco, and then he was pulling off his own clothing because Draco looked cold. What in the bloody hell was Potter playing at? Making him sandwiches and worrying after his health?

Maybe he was concerned about the legal ramifications of harming Draco. He thought it was pretty clear at this point that Potter could do as he liked, but then again, Potter was dense as a brick.

Draco crammed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Finally, he had uninterrupted hours to sleep, reasonably full and warm, with no cruel whispers or fragmented memories to startle him awake, no potions that deprived him of sleep, no Aurors kicking the door in to try out a new hex they’d invented in the break room.

It was all he’d wanted for what felt like years— _ sleep— _ and now he couldn’t manage it.

Finally, Draco crawled gingerly out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. He flipped the light on and stared at himself in the dingy mirror. He hadn’t seen his reflection in almost five years. His stomach clenched at the sight. His hair was ragged and overgrown, his eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, skin pale and blotchy. He could see bones sticking out and bruises blooming everywhere. He splashed some water on his face, carefully avoiding his nose, and washed the blood off his mouth before drinking out of the tap.

He couldn’t stand the sight of himself anymore, so he turned off the light and leaned back against the sink, head in his hands. Maybe, after everything, he deserved this. Hell, maybe he deserved worse.

His mother didn’t, though. She was in the program too, probably already placed with Merlin only knew what kind of sick son of a bitch. He could only hope that wherever she was, it was better than Azkaban.

Draco sank down to the floor, too exhausted to stand anymore. What the hell did Potter want with her? Did he want to have her, too, just to lord it over them both? Was he really that sick?

Draco wasn’t sure he believed that, but if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that the most normal-seeming people could do the cruelest things. The criminals, the thugs, they were who they were. But the good, upstanding people, the Aurors and the Ministry officials—those were the ones you had to watch out for. There was no reason to believe the “Chosen One” was any different.

And he wasn’t going to fall for Potter’s nice guy routine. No, not for a second.

And with that bitter thought firmly in his mind, Draco finally, finally drifted off to sleep on the bathroom floor.

Draco awoke on the floor, his whole body aching—but that was normal. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and then his panic set in all over again. He’d been practically delirious when he’d arrived at Potter’s house, but now that he could think a little more clearly, his situation struck him again at full force.

_ It’s better than Azkaban, _ he reminded himself. So far, at least. He still had the memory of almost dying of a curse Potter had thrown at him in the bathroom, of his blood spurting everywhere, of white-hot pain and then an awful, chilling numbness.

If it weren’t for Snape, Potter would have killed him that day.

But there was no one to protect him now. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he died. Maybe he should just finish the job himself, save himself the inevitable suffering.

No. He wasn’t going to think like that. He’d done a lot of things, but he’d never given up, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Draco began the slow, arduous process of pushing himself off the floor. The pain was always worst right when he got up, but at the moment, it was staggering, and he leaned back against the sink again. Sitting here in his cold, dark room had become far too reminiscent of his cell, but he wasn’t sure if he dared to go back downstairs.

Had he really turned into that much of a coward? He would have jumped at the chance to fight Potter back in school. But now, there was the worrying fact that Potter had a wand, and Draco didn’t. Even if he managed to get ahold of one, he wouldn’t be able to wield it. The runes on his wrist made sure of that.

He thought for a few moments of climbing back into bed, but he was beginning to realize why he hadn’t been able to sleep before—the bed was too soft, too unlike the stone floor he’d grown accustomed to. 

He considered a bath, as he was still filthy, but the thought of taking all his clothes off and getting wet, only to then reverse the whole process, sounded too painful and exhausting to attempt.

Finally, he decided there was nothing for it but to go downstairs. Whatever torments Potter’s pea-sized brain could concoct, it couldn’t be worse than sitting in the dark, with nothing but his own thoughts for company.

Draco reached the bottom of the stairs, and peaked around the corner. Potter was in the living room, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch. He’d managed to build a fire, at least, and was twisting up discarded newspapers from his floor to burn. There was a half-empty potion bottle beside him on the floor.

Draco wondered what kind of drunk the famous Harry Potter was. What if he was the angry sort? Draco didn’t feel like walking into a fight. It wasn’t his fear that stopped him, exactly—although he was more apprehensive than he’d like to admit—but his exhaustion. He was tired of fighting, tired of hiding his emotions, his pain, tired of spitting people’s insults back at their face only to have them come back to haunt him later. He was just  _ tired. _

Too tired to face his old enemy, certainly. He turned to creep back up the stairs, only to have his foot crunch loudly on an empty cup that seemed to have once held cheap coffee. Draco froze, staring at the offending object and cursing Potter once again for being such a slob.

Then he heard it.

“Malfoy?”

Draco swore under his breath and stepped around the corner. “Good evening, Potter.”

“Good evening, yourself.” Potter raised the bottle at him in a mock toast. “Have a nice nap?”

“It was lovely.” Draco didn’t have the energy to make the lie convincing.

“Glad to hear it. Come join me?”

The fire looked nice…Draco could hardly say no, at this point, so he crossed the room and dropped to the floor a couple feet from Potter. He noticed the leather briefcase the Aurors had given Potter sitting beside them, and felt a small chill run down his spine, wondering how much information it contained. The Ministry kept their cards close to the chest, so Draco doubted there was much truth about Azkaban or the program in the packet of documents. But it had, at least, Draco’s entire case file, along with the rules and procedures of his imprisonment—like the runes and how much they controlled. And what, exactly, they could do, if Potter wished it.

That was the part that was making the hairs on Draco’s arms and neck stand on end.

“Did you finally do your homework?” Draco asked casually, glancing at the briefcase.

“Oh. Yeah, that.” Potter shifted his weight, took another drink. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

Draco swallowed with difficulty. “About what?”

Potter tugged the briefcase closer and rifled through it, pulling out a parchment and handing it to Draco. “This looks like information about you.” Potter indicated the label printed in neat script on the outside: Official Ministry case file of prisoner #6583-9K.

Draco ran a finger over the red wax seal. “You didn’t want to read it?”

“Didn’t feel right.”

“Nothing about this is right,” Draco muttered.

“You’re not wrong.” Potter held the potion bottle out to him. “I know you didn’t want any before, but you really look like you could use a drink.”

Draco shrugged and accepted the bottle. Maybe it would quiet his thoughts down. It would at least dull the pain a little. He took a sip. It tasted like peaches and honey, and suddenly he realized he’d tasted it before, on Pansy’s lips after a school dance. The memory felt so far away, like it belonged to someone else. He could feel tears springing to his eyes, and blinked them furiously away. He was not about to cry in front of Harry Potter.

Although, he reminded himself, it wouldn’t be the first time.

He shoved  _ that _ memory aside, and took another long swig of the potion before breaking the seal on the parchment. He skimmed it. There wasn’t much there he didn’t already know. It had notes about the rest of his family, that his father had been executed and that his mother was also in the so-called ‘rehabilitation program.’ The rest of it was pretty dry: testimony, court dates, sentencing. It did contain the date of his eligibility for parole—almost thirty years to the day. Draco crumpled the parchment in his hands, and tossed it into the fire. He took another long drink, studiously avoiding looking at Potter while simultaneously awaiting a reaction.

Potter just crumpled up another piece of newspaper, and tossed it on top of Draco’s file.

They sat there in silence for a minute, just watching them burn.

The potion was beginning to take effect; Draco could feel himself relaxing, a honeyed calmness spreading through his veins, warming him from the inside out.

He passed the bottle back to Potter. “I can see why you picked up the habit.”

Potter offered him a sad half smile, before taking another drink and setting the bottle between them. He twisted another sheet of newspaper, and once it was a tight spiral, tossed it into the fire.

“Is this why you keep so much trash around?” Draco asked finally. “Free tinder?”

Potter snorted softly. “Not really used to having company. Sorry it’s not the five star resort you expected.”

“What about that Weasley girl? Weren’t you two an item?”

Potter’s face darkened, and Draco cursed himself. Even when he wasn’t looking for a fight, his mouth was.

But Potter didn’t look angry, exactly. He just sighed. “She left.”

“Her loss,” Draco said, quietly. He didn’t want to break whatever fragile peace they’d established.

Potter shook his head. “Nah. I would have left me, too.” He tossed another newspaper log onto the fire and then leaned back against the couch to watch it burn, running a hand through his hair.

Draco didn’t know what to say back to that, so he just sat forward and held his still shaky hands out towards the flames. That tremor, in his fingers, it never seemed to go away, no matter what. Too many rounds with the Cruciatus Curse, probably. And his constant anxiety hardly improved things.

“So…” Draco began finally, the drink helping to steady his nerves. “Find anything else interesting in all that paperwork?”

Potter cleared his throat, looking more uncomfortable than Draco had seen him yet. “Um, yeah. Some stuff about…about the runes. You can’t use magic?”

Draco shook his head. “Even if I got my hands on a wand, I’d pass out before I could cast a spell.” He smiled sarcastically at Potter. “No chance of me killing you in your sleep, don’t worry. That’s another stipulation—I can’t harm you.”

“Yeah. Or leave my property, apparently. It’s, uh…” Potter hesitated. “Some pretty sick stuff. I didn’t read all of it.”

“Is that so?”

“You know I never liked homework.” Potter looked down at the bottle in his hands as he spoke, his voice forcedly casual.

Draco smirked bitterly. “You always were a bad liar, Potter.” He stared at the runes on his wrist. They looked like small, white, unassuming scars. “I told you before, nothing is off the table. You can torture me, force me to follow your commands…even kill me. Just with a wave of your wand and a thought.”

Draco shot his captor a careful look. Potter was shaking his head, his features showing nothing Draco could read, beyond disgust.

“All that talk the Ministry does about stopping the Unforgivable Curses…” Potter scoffed quietly. “And then they invent something like this. All three, made easy. What a bunch of hypocrites.”

“What about you then?” Draco asked quietly. “You talk about this being wrong, but you’re the one who signed me over into your name.”

“Well…” Potter tapped the nearly empty bottle against his palm. “You seemed like you wanted me to. That was the impression I got, anyway.”

“And when you requested me from the program? Did you figure I wanted it back then?” Draco’s voice had turned icy, accusatory, without his permission. Getting intoxicated had probably been a bad idea, in hindsight. Although he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to hear what Potter had to say.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I swear, I had no idea about any of this until you showed up at my doorstep.”

Potter was right; Draco didn’t believe him.

“But then you did, and you looked awful, and I could tell you didn’t want to go back there, there was no reason to bait me like that otherwise. And I figured, whatever it was like back there, it must be pretty damn bad, if you preferred me as a warden.”

“Pretty damn bad.” Draco snorted. “Imagine hell, then make it worse.”

Potter swore quietly. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

Draco swallowed, hard. It had been a long time since he’d heard his name spoken aloud. He felt an uncomfortable bubble of emotion rising in his throat. “The last thing I need is your pity, Potter.”

“I know that.” Potter shifted his weight on the floor, ran a hand through his hair yet again. Draco was beginning to recognize it as a nervous habit. It would have been kind of cute, if he didn’t despise the man doing it.

“You were just a kid, though,” Potter continued, “During the war, I mean. Just like me, and Hermione, and Ron. You didn’t deserve...all this.”

He had been just a kid. Just a stupid, naïve little boy, getting himself mixed up in grown up affairs, arrogantly assuming he could swim in the deep end. But hadn’t he paid for that enough? Hadn’t he learned better by now? He’d already regretted it, in his sixth year, when the stress of working for the Dark Lord began to eat away at him. He’d regretted it even more, when Lord Voldemort had moved into his family home, had tortured and killed people in their dining room. He’d regretted it most as he’d watched his mother begin to fade away from the stress and terror of it all, watched her become a shell of her former self. And he’d known, all along, that it was his fault. 

Draco looked down at the faded scar on his left arm. Maybe he was getting exactly what he deserved, after all. 

“I’m just pissing you off, aren’t I?” Potter said finally. 

Draco turned to look at his oldest enemy. Potter looked tired, almost as tired as Draco felt. He had to admit, he was a little surprised Potter wasn’t telling him he deserved worse.

“I’m not angry,” Draco whispered. “But don’t try to tell me what I deserve.” 

Truthfully, all Draco felt was hollow. Potter’s words might have been comforting, coming from someone else, to a different person, in another life. But when he thought about himself, all he could feel was disgust. 

“All right, I’ll shut up then,” Potter replied.

The note of dejection in his voice did something strange to Draco’s heart, but he’d never been much good at comforting people either, and if he said Potter was helping, he’d be lying. 

They watched the fire until it died, in silence, and at some point Draco didn’t remember, they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you thought about this one, I'm a little unsure about it.  
> Again, it's been a long time since I read the books, so if I messed anything up, my apologies.  
> Thanks to everyone who left comments on the last one! You guys are so nice and really encouraging me to keep writing. Thank you, sincerely.


	5. In which Harry gets pushed too far

Harry awoke to the sound of rain hammering on the glass of the House of Black’s windows. He’d fallen asleep leaning back against the couch, and his neck had a funny crick in it now. He cracked it, and then his back and his knuckles, mopped his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, and shoved his glasses back onto his face. He was just about to haul himself up to go make some coffee, when his eyes fell on a shape to his left. He startled, and then last night, and all of the day before, came back to him.

Draco Malfoy was curled up on the floor next to him. Draco Malfoy, the one who had tormented him and his friends during their school years, who had tried to kill Dumbledore, who had become a Death Eater, _that_ Draco Malfoy, was asleep on his living room floor.

Harry removed his glasses again and rubbed his hands over his face. How the hell had he gotten here again? What cruel twist of fate had put him in this position exactly?

After sitting there staring at Malfoy for a while, trying to convince himself this was reality, Harry decided that coffee was probably still a good idea, and rose as quietly as he could.

He came back from the kitchen a little while later, carrying coffee and toast for two. Malfoy still looked horribly malnourished, and if the man was going to be his responsibility for the time being, Harry was at the very least going to feed him.

He set the food down on the coffee table, and then hesitated, staring down at Malfoy. Malfoy was clearly hurt, and weak, and Harry was quickly learning just how powerless Malfoy really was in this situation. Most of the time, however, Malfoy still managed to project an air of unshakeable confidence, to fire back at Harry with seeming fearlessness, to hold himself in a way that made it clear there was still some steel down his spine. But asleep…Malfoy looked strangely vulnerable. His dirty, white blond hair was tousled over his face, and his features were tensed in an expression of discomfort, his fingers twitching in what looked like a nightmare.

Harry knelt beside him, and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy jolted awake at his touch and scrambled away until his back hit the couch. He was panting, his eyes wide and scared like a fox cornered by dogs, his arms up to protect himself from an imagined attack.

Harry held his hands up. “Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Malfoy let out a long breath, leaned his head back against the couch cushions, although his arms stayed raised. Slowly, slowly, he lowered them. “What the hell, Potter.”

“You looked like you were having a nightmare, I just…I’m sorry. That was probably stupid.”

Malfoy fisted a hand in his hair, swore, and took another deep breath. “My nightmares are more comforting than my reality at the moment, trust me.”

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. “Um…I made coffee.”

Malfoy laughed softly at that, surveying the coffee table. “Breakfast in bed, huh?”

“More like breakfast…on floor, but yeah. You should eat something.”

Malfoy reached out unsteadily for the coffee, picked it up and took a small sip. He screwed his face up in distaste. “Got any sugar?”

Harry learned over to pull his backpack towards him from the other end of the couch, and then dug in the smallest pocket, eventually excavating some sugar packets from the diner down the street. He tossed them to Malfoy. 

Malfoy stared down at the slightly sticky, crumpled packets for a moment, obviously stifling his disgust, and then tore into all four at once and dumped them into the coffee. He took a sip and shut his eyes in contentment. “Perfect.”

Harry sat on the floor across from him and began drinking his own coffee, black—since he was pretty sure Malfoy had just used all his sugar in a single cup of coffee. 

Harry couldn’t really be mad though—he still felt too guilty. He should have known better than to wake Malfoy up like that.

But even if he’d been lost in the midst of the worst kind of nightmare, Malfoy’s reaction had been…dramatic. Harry didn’t want to think about what Malfoy had woken up to in the past, to have _that_ be his instinctual response.

Malfoy opened his eyes again and regarded Harry over the rim of his mug. “So,” he began, in a sleepy version of his mocking drawl, “You ever going to cut that hair of yours? You look like a girl.”

It was a little below Malfoy’s usual caliber of insult, but Harry was willing to bet Malfoy had been embarrassed by how he’d woken up, and now he was trying to level the playing field. “Yours is longer,” Harry pointed out, not managing to really sound offended.

“Oh, sorry, I was too busy being tortured to visit the barber,” Malfoy said, taking another sip of coffee.

Harry shoved the plate of toast towards him on the coffee table, wishing he would eat something. “I’ve got some scissors, you know, we could cut it.”

“If I didn’t want you waving a wand in my face, Potter, what makes you think I want you wielding scissors next to my neck?”

Harry shrugged and took a bite of toast. “Just a thought. Have you reconsidered that at all? Me healing you, since you can’t work magic?”

Malfoy took a bite of toast and chewed slowly before answering. “I think it’s clear even to someone as thick as you, you don’t need my consent to do anything. But if you work magic on me without it—“ Malfoy locked eyes with him, his gaze suddenly cold as gunmetal. “Consider any civility between us officially ended. For good.”

“Noted,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “It was just a suggestion, not a threat.”

“We’ll see how long it stays that way,” Malfoy muttered darkly.

They sat there for a moment, eating toast in silence on the floor, until Malfoy spoke again.

“So, your hair…Ginny used to cut it, didn’t she?”

Apparently Malfoy was awake enough now to plan his jibes more eloquently. He was also correct. Harry felt himself stiffen. He set his coffee cup down and ran a hand through his overgrown, slightly tangled black hair in silence.

“Did she used to bathe you, too? You look like you haven’t done that in a few years, either.”

“Coming from someone who smells like a wet dumpster,” Harry replied, knowing it was a bit of a cheap shot. Malfoy had been in prison, he could hardly be blamed for his lack of hygiene.

But Malfoy simply ignored his remark. “Maybe we should relight the fire, give her a floo call. If you gave her a few Knuts, she’d probably clean your filthy house for you, too. She is a Weasley, after all.”

“You’re on thin ice, Malfoy,” Harry said, knowing he was being wound up but unable to ignore it.

Malfoy smirked. “Thin ice…What happens when it cracks, I wonder?”

“Make another remark about Ginny, and you’ll find out,” Harry said, glaring at him now.

“Sounds like quality entertainment to me.” Malfoy swirled his remaining coffee in mock contemplation. “So, Ginny. Wonder who she’s with now?”

“She’s a grown woman. She can do whatever she likes.” 

“Or whomever she likes.” Malfoy must have known he was hitting a nerve, cause a cold smile spread over his face. “Wish I’d been placed with her, instead. Sounds like fun.” 

“You still haven’t learned when to shut up, Malfoy.”

“And you still haven’t learned to control yourself.” 

Harry cracked his knuckles, took a couple deep breaths, reminding himself that the man sitting across from him couldn’t defend himself, _at all._ Malfoy was fighting back the only way he knew how, the only way he could, with words—just like Harry used to do with the Dursleys. He’d found a weak spot, and now he was poking it. That was it, nothing personal. Still…

“Say what you want about me, but this is between us. Leave my friends out of it.”

Malfoy set his mug down on the table, drummed his fingers beside it in exaggerated consideration. “And if I don’t?”

“What do you want me to do, Malfoy? Threaten you? We’re going to be living together for the foreseeable future, can’t we just be civil?”

“We’re not flat mates, Potter,” Malfoy scoffed. “I’m your prisoner, remember? So go on then. Threaten me.”

Harry hesitated, biting his tongue. Part of him wanted to retort that Malfoy was only coming after him like this because he was ashamed of how he’d behaved earlier, of his involuntary reaction to even the slightest touch. But it seemed too cruel of a thing to point out.

Harry stood, and Malfoy, to his credit, didn’t react. He simply looked up at Harry, one eyebrow raised.

Harry fisted and un-fisted his hands a couple of times, lowered his voice.

“You’re wrong, Malfoy. I know how to control myself. But it seems you still haven’t even learned manners.”

"Are you going to teach me, then?"

Harry stepped closer, bent down a little to look Malfoy in the eyes. His face was cold, tense, unreadable. 

“I don’t have any interest in making threats,” Harry said, his voice still quiet. “But I won’t live with someone who treats me like garbage. I’ve been there and done that, believe me. And we both know it's me or Azkaban.” 

Harry straightened, pulled on his coat from the back of the couch, and shouldered his backpack. “I’m going out. And when I come back,” he turned to give Malfoy one last look. “Maybe you’ll be ready to have a grown-up conversation.” And with that, he headed out the door and into the rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate title for this chapter is "Harry finally gets fed up with Draco's shit," haha. I didn't want Harry to be too much of a jerk though. I'm not going to lie, that argument was hard to write, I rewrote it more than once. Tell me what you thought?  
> Finally, thank you to everyone who's still reading, it means a lot <3 I've been getting back into writing after a long hiatus and this fic is getting me back into the habit of writing every day. I've been really enjoying it.  
> Okay that's all, just wanted to say thank you!


	6. In which Draco meets someone new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very strange day today, slept only two hours, and edited this while a little tipsy, so god knows how it came out. I'll probably edit it again tomorrow, but I've been trying to complete something every day, so I wanted to finish it  
> It also came out super long, sorry about that. I'd been keeping the chapter lengths consistent and then there's this monster.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you enjoy <3

Draco leaned his head back against the cold porcelain of the bathtub and shut his eyes. 

Potter had surprised him. He hadn’t thought that was possible. Draco had prepared himself for whatever torture and mistreatment Potter could come up with, steeled himself for nothing but vindictiveness and derision. The one thing he hadn’t expected from Potter was self-restraint. And...what, concern? 

That was the part that baffled him the most. The food, the rest, the requests to heal him...He could almost chalk that up to Potter wanting to keep him alive, for the time being. But it was the little things that stuck in his head, like the offer of a drink, or the sugar for his coffee, or not invading his privacy by reading his personal file. 

Or the damn jumper. Draco was still stymied by that. 

And then there was this morning. Draco had been humiliated by his overreaction to being startled out of a nightmare--Potter had barely touched him, and Draco had cowered away as if Potter were trying to kill him. He was disgusted with himself, ashamed that the things that had been done to him had left such a deep scar in his brain. He’d thought he was stronger than that. 

And then Potter had to go and be all nice. Potter hadn’t even mocked him for his reaction, he’d just gone on about healing him again. 

_It was just a suggestion, not a threat._

And apparently, it really was, as Draco had wound him up seemingly as far as he could go today, and Potter hadn’t even pulled out his wand. He’d just...left. 

Maybe Draco was some kind of pity project for the savior of wizardkind. Perhaps Potter was even getting paid to take care of him. It made sense that the Ministry would want the Chosen One publicly on board with their new program. But then why the act with the Aurors, trying to turn him away? Why the speech about how wrong it all was, how Draco didn’t deserve it? 

He even suspected, in the darker parts of his thoughts, that Potter was simply waiting for his moment, waiting for Draco to heal a bit, before he really started having fun. But then why the little kindnesses, here and there? The ones that seemed almost inconsequential, but that Draco couldn’t get out of his head? 

No matter what theory Draco came up with, he couldn’t seem to make the pieces fit. 

One thing was certain, though: Potter may have said he had no interest in making threats, but he’d made one all the same, veiled though it was. _We both know it’s me or Azkaban._

And they both knew which one Draco preferred. Azkaban was the closest thing he could imagine to hell on earth. And Potter could send him back any time he liked, with little more than a snap of his fingers. 

And Draco had gone and pissed him off, over and over again. 

So now, he was in the uncomfortable position of knowing that he needed to apologize, but also knowing his mouth could never form the words before he choked on his pride. 

He needed some way to pay Potter back, some kind of peace offering. And as Draco got out of the bath, shivering, to get dressed, the perfect idea struck him. 

Draco tugged the door open—it stuck, and hurt his arm...he was pretty sure that elbow was sprained, but that was a problem for another day—and descended the chilly, cement steps down to the basement. It was filthy, cluttered with crates and tapestries and a disturbing number of taxidermied house elf heads, all hung with cobwebs and coated with dust. Draco began to pick his way through the piles of junk--tapestries, old dish-ware, objects that most certainly looked cursed--when he heard it. 

“Kreacher does not know him, this is Kreacher’s part of the house, Master should not have let him come here--”

“Hello?” Draco asked. He couldn’t see anyone else in the dim basement, all he could hear was the quiet croaking voice, seemingly muttering to itself. 

And then the source of the voice appeared around the corner of a crate, a crumpled, hunched creature wearing nothing but a dirty rag around its waist. 

Draco jumped back in alarm. It took him a moment to recognize the creature as a house-elf, the giant, hairy ears tipping him off. 

“Does Potter know you’re down here?” Draco asked.

“The master said,” the elf continued muttering, “The master said this was Kreacher’s part of the house, Kreacher does not know what this criminal is doing--”

“Excuse me, I’m talking to you,” Draco said, interrupting the elf’s rambling. 

The elf looked up at Draco with his strange, milky eyes for a few long, uncomfortable seconds, before bowing low. “Kreacher should introduce himself. Kreacher used to serve here, used to serve the Noble Family of Black, before the house was overrun with the filthy blood traitors…” Kreacher trailed off. “Kreacher does not know you. Kreacher knows a bad sort when he sees it, yes, indeed--”

“I’m just here to fix the heater, then I’ll be going,” Draco said, pushing past the elf. He could almost feel Kreacher’s malevolent gaze burning into his back as he squeezed his way to the back of the room, where the heater was clunking ineffectually. He’d found a screwdriver under the sink—with no wand, he’d have to do this the Muggle way—and now he opened the panel in the back, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work. 

Kreacher, seemingly deciding that fixing the heater was too suspicious an excuse, followed him, still muttering. “...Nasty little face, like a rat, up to no good, Kreacher can tell, how could a pureblood fall so low…”

Draco tucked his overgrown hair behind his ears and attempted to tune out the muttering and focus. The filter was clogged with a strange green sludge, the fan blades were broken, and it was running on one power cell. No wonder the damn thing didn’t work. 

Draco sat back on his heels. “You didn’t happen to see a spare power cell around here, did you?” 

Kreacher laughed unkindly, and then seemed to remember he was supposed to respond. “No, sir, Kreacher has not seen such a thing, sir.” 

Draco considered for a moment, eyeing a door nearby that looked like a storeroom. As soon as his fingers brushed the handle, however, Kreacher was back at it with the muttering. 

“The lowlife is busting into Kreacher’s room, going to rifle through Kreacher’s things with his grubby fingers, the master will be furious--”

Draco stopped, and turned round. “Kreacher, is it?”

“Yes, sir, Kreacher,” the elf murmured, looking offended simply at being addressed. 

“I’ll trade you a very cursed set of chains if you’ll loan me a spare power cell.”

Kreacher shook his head. “The scum says ‘loan’ as if he’ll bring it back, such lies Kreacher has never heard--”

“If you’ll _give_ me a power cell.” 

The elf considered for a moment, uncharacteristically silent. “Kreacher would like to see the chains.” 

Draco was back a few minutes later, holding the chains he’d been restrained with when he’d arrived. He knew they were cursed, he could feel it within them--ever since he’d dipped his toes in the darkness, he could almost smell it wherever it lingered--and by the fact that the abraded skin on his wrists and neck still stung, as sharply as when he had first taken them off. 

He handed the chains to Kreacher. Kreacher surveyed them, turning them over in his tiny hands, and muttering things that Draco couldn’t quite make out. Then the elf reached, quick as a snake, and wrapped his bony fingers around Draco’s wrist.

Draco pulled back, but the elf was surprisingly strong for his size, and simply yanked the arm closer to his face.

“These markings, Kreacher knows these, oh yes…”

It took Draco a moment to understand what Kreacher was talking about. “What...the runes? You know them?”

“These are old marks, very old, yes. Very old, when the world was new, and the blood was clean. Kreacher has heard of such things, Kreacher has seen…” The elf was making even less sense than he had before, somehow. 

“Do you know how to get rid of them?” Draco asked, feeling an unwelcome swell of hope in his heart. 

Kreacher shook his head. “No, no, the lowlife thinks he’ll escape, but no, not from these. The rats may crawl into the gutters but you, you’re stuck in a trap. You’ll have to gnaw off your own tail, filthy little rodent--”

Draco finally succeeded in tugging his arm back. He cradled it. His wrist was burning furiously; Kreacher had wrapped his fingers over Draco’s raw skin when he’d grabbed him. 

“I get it, it’s impossible. Do we have a deal, or not?”

Kreacher studied the chains, and then the marks. Eventually, he looked back up. “Kreacher agrees to the deal. Kreacher will fetch what you need.” 

“Great. Thanks.” Draco watched as the elf hobbled back to his storeroom, and leaned to the side to peak in. It was a treasure trove of dark, cursed objects, rugs and chandeliers and crystal balls and strange, whispering mirrors. Draco could not begin to guess how Kreacher had accrued such a collection of unholy odds and ends, but at the moment he just wanted a damn power cell so he could get the hell out of this basement. 

Kreacher returned, handed him a half empty power cell. “Here, Kreacher hopes this is what you need, Kreacher has nothing else you would want, no, no…”

Draco took the cell from the thing’s grimy little hand and returned to the heater to snap it into place. Now he just had to get that muck out of the filter and jerry-rig something to fix the fan blade. Kreacher, after giving him one last suspicious look, thankfully retreated to his room and shut the door. 

Draco was going to have to ask Potter about him, when he got back. And find some way to research the runes. At the moment, however, his biggest problems were a foul-smelling slime clog and a razor-sharp snapped fan blade.

It took him a little over two hours, but Draco managed to get the heater working. He rose and dusted off his hands, feeling the need for another bath already, but too exhausted to even consider it.

But he felt accomplished, and he had to admit, it was nice to feel something other than shame or fear. 

Once he climbed the stairs, the couch began to look very inviting, so he laid down, still wearing his prison clothes and Potter’s jumper over them. He should return it, he realized, and it was his last thought before he drifted off to sleep. 

He woke to the sound of the door opening. Potter stepped in, looking soaked through, his overgrown hair sticking to his forehead and his glasses covered in rain drops. 

“I brought dinner,” he said, setting a plastic bag that smelled like food down on the table. He pulled his coat off and looked up at Draco in surprise. “Is that...did you get the heater working?” 

“I was tired of freezing my arse off.” Draco sat up and shrugged, as if it had been easy. It hadn’t been; he’d had to go looking through the crates for spare parts for the fan, and he’d cut his hands more than once. 

Potter raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Draco said. “I do have some skills that don’t involve ordering servants around, you know.” 

“Thanks, Malfoy.” Potter gave him a bemused half-smile. “I hope you accept Chinese food as payment for maintenance, cause that’s what I’ve got.” 

“Can’t be worse than bologna,” Draco said, leaning forward to accept the steaming paper box Potter handed him. He had to admit, it smelled good. And Potter seemed pleased about the heater, so he’d made the right call, there. There was one more thing he needed to do. He set the Chinese food down on the table, and pulled off the jumper Potter had given him, folded it, and held it out. “Here. Guess I don’t need this anymore, now that the heater’s fixed.” 

Potter gave him a long look. 

Draco held his eyes, keeping his expression casual, almost impatient. Truthfully, giving the jumper back was proving to be harder than he thought. He wasn’t too much colder without it, but he was somehow...lonelier. The jumper had become a sort of warm, enveloping hug in the past 24 hours, a small comfort in a time of great stress, and now, if he were being honest, as ugly as the thing was, he was loath to part with it. 

But surely, after this morning, whatever strange notion of goodwill had prompted Potter to gift him with it was gone, and he’d want it returned to him. 

Potter made no move to take it, however, instead pushing it gently back towards Draco. “Why don’t you keep it? Even with the heater on, your clothes are pretty thin.” 

Draco shot Potter a flippant, “If you insist,” and pulled the jumper back over his head, trying to ignore how strangely relieved he felt. 

“Looks better on you anyway,” Potter said, pulling out a plastic fork and digging into his noodles. 

Draco smirked, holding an arm out to observe the lumpy, grey knitting of the jumper. “Normally I'd say I look good in a sack, but this...this might actually be worse than a sack.” 

Potter rolled his eyes. 

“What grandmother knitted you this for Christmas, and why do they hate you?” Draco asked. 

“My family’s dead,” Potter said, through a mouthful of chow mein. “I got it at a thrift store.”

“Oh, right,” Draco said, not knowing what else to say. He’d forgotten Potter was an orphan. He realized belatedly that he’d returned to his usual brand of mockery, and wondered if he was still on 'thin ice,' so to speak. Potter didn’t look ticked off, though, just tired. 

“Mrs. Weasley knits me jumpers for Christmas sometimes, though.” Potter wore a fond smile. “Can’t say they’re fashionable, but...they’re probably my favorite thing I own.” 

A thought struck Draco that he hadn’t really considered before. The Weasleys were more or less Potter’s family. He’d been best friends with Ron, almost married Ginny. They probably felt more like family than Potter’s dead relations. 

That made Draco feel even worse about their argument, and he was realizing he probably owed Potter a real apology. He took a deep breath, and forced the words out. “I’m sorry, about this morning.” 

Potter looked up at him, his expression calculating. He seemed to be waiting for more.

Draco took another breath. _You don’t want to go back to Azkaban,_ he told himself. _Just say it._ “You were right, I shouldn’t have dragged Ginny into this. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” 

Potter was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, his words cautious. “Are you actually apologizing, Malfoy, or just telling me what I want to hear?”

Draco cursed himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this morning up at all. How convincing did Potter expect him to be? “If you want me to pretend to care about your feelings, Potter, I’m afraid my acting skills aren’t up to the task. But as long as I’m living under your roof, I won’t insult your friends again. I swear.” 

“Alright,” Potter replied. “Fair enough.” He set his food down on the table. “What about you? Do you have any requests?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, thrown. 

“Well, like you said, we’re going to be living under the same roof. I made a request of you, to not talk trash about the people I care about. Do you want to make one of me?”

Draco stared down at the marks on his wrist, considering. “Don’t raise your wand at me again without my permission,” he said, knowing he was asking for too much. 

But to his surprise, Potter was nodding. “Okay, noted. I’m sorry, about yesterday, by the way. You’re right, I should have asked first. I will, from now on.” Then Potter did something even more surprising. He raised his palm, and spit in it, and held it out for Draco to shake.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Potter, that’s revolting.” 

“It’s a spit pact,” Potter said, as if it were something everyone did. “Me and Ron used to do it. C’mon, it’s not official until it’s a spit pact.” He was smiling now, looking amused.

Draco rolled his eyes. “How about we pinkie swear, instead? Since we’re apparently in primary school now.”

Potter obliged, wiping his palm on his jeans and holding out his pinkie. Draco did the same, and they shook. 

Then Potter began tucking into his chow mein again, like everything he’d just done was perfectly natural. 

It was then that Draco realized he had yet to inquire about Kreacher. “Oh, I forgot to mention, Potter,” he said, unsure how to even broach the subject, “You...you do know you have a deranged house elf living in your basement, right?”

Potter set his fork down to comb his soggy bangs off his forehead with his fingers. “So you met Kreacher, then.” 

“Yeah. Quite a character.”

Potter sighed. “Well, my friend Hermione managed to pass an order with the Ministry freeing all the house elves, but Kreacher’s lived here for god knows how long, and he didn’t want to leave. I didn’t have the heart to force him out, so now he lives in the basement, comes and goes as he pleases. Steals my liquor, occasionally, but that’s the only time he ever bothers me.”

“He’s got a whole lot of cursed junk down there. I think he’s a fence or something.”

“He probably is.” Potter shrugged. “I think he’s trying to track down all the stuff Sirius and the Order threw out.” 

“That doesn’t...disturb you a little? Having him live down there?” Draco asked. 

Potter shrugged again, half-heartedly this time. “I don’t know. He used to give me the creeps, when I was younger. But now, I guess...I guess I can understand living in the past.”

Draco began to open his mouth to enquire what Potter meant by that, but then thought better of it. Potter hadn’t appreciated him digging into his business before, and they’d established a fragile sort of peace between them again. Draco was too worn out to break it.

“You look like you took a bath,” Potter said, changing the subject. “You want some fresh clothes? I bet my stuff would fit you.” 

Draco shook his head. “These are fine.” In truth, being in Harry Potter’s custody, living in Harry Potter’s house—it was already too much. He didn’t think he could stand wearing Potter’s clothes on top of it. The sweater was different—it had been a seemingly kind gesture, an almost friendly one, and because of that, Draco supposed, he somehow found it comforting. But his prison clothes, despite being a reminder of a place he’d much rather forget, were the only thing that was _his_. He wasn’t sure he was ready to bereft himself of the only things in the world he owned. 

“If I could borrow those scissors you talked about, though, I’d like to cut my hair,” he said finally. 

“Of course,” Potter said, already getting up. He came back from the kitchen and held them out to Draco. “Here. They’re rusty, don’t cut yourself with ‘em.” 

“I suppose I’ll postpone slitting my wrists, then,” Draco shot back, as he walked to the bathroom. Squinting into the dusty mirror, he began pulling strands of hair away from his head and cutting. The scissors were a little rusty, but they did the job. 

When he was through, he took another look at himself. He’d done pretty neat work of it, in his opinion. And looking at his reflection, he realized that, for the first time in a long time, he felt a little more like himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think Rowling has a lot of magic tech in her books, from what I remember, but it's one of my favorite concepts, so I made the heater sort of science fantasy. (That's one of the reasons I like writing fanfiction, you can make up whatever you want and have it exist within the world. It's amazing.)  
> Secondly, Kreacher is like one of my top ten favorite characters in Harry Potter, so there will definitely be more of him. I was trying to keep him like in the books, just a little more senile. Hopefully I did a decent job of writing him.  
> Finally, as always, please leave a comment if you have any thoughts, even if it's a criticism or a correction. I live for feedback on my work and I can't tell you how happy they make me.  
> Okay, thanks for reading!


	7. In which Harry struggles with his words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry this one's kind of short and not much happens. I wanted to post something though. <3  
> I had a rough mental health day and fell off the self harm wagon after almost a year clean, so I took a little break to relax with my gf and clean my house (it was starting to look like Harry's does in this story, lol). Hope y'all understand.

Harry started awake in a cold sweat, sitting up and staring around the dark room with accusing eyes at every shadow. 

He sank back down onto the couch, wrapping his arms around himself. Just another nightmare. It was already fading, all he could remember was a dark, hooded shape chasing him through a maze-like forest at night as he ran for his life, tripping on roots and snakes. The dream felt like the ghost of a memory, and Harry had a sick taste in the back of his mouth. 

His fire had died hours ago, and he had chills rising on his arms, but at least the house wasn’t ice cold anymore, thanks to Malfoy. He got up to get a glass of water, picking his well-worn path through take-out boxes and empty bottles in the pitch-black room. As he passed the staircase to the upstairs, he glimpsed a soft light coming down the hall. 

What was Malfoy doing this late at night? 

He couldn’t sleep anyway—that had been the third nightmare to wake him up—so he climbed the stairs to the second floor. 

The light was coming from the cracked door of the office. Harry considered peeking in to see what Malfoy was up to, but he didn’t want to ruin any trust he’d managed to build, so instead, he tapped softly on the door before pushing it open. 

Malfoy was sitting on the floor in the middle of the cluttered, musty office, surrounded by books and parchments. He looked up as Harry walked in. Malfoy looked pale in the light, and his eyes still had dark circles under them. Harry supposed he wasn’t getting much sleep, either. 

“Whatcha up to?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Lot on my mind.” 

“So you decided to, what, alphabetize the Black family library?” There seemed to be more books stacked around Malfoy than there were on the shelves. 

“Just doing some light reading,” Malfoy said casually, restacking one of the books he’d been looking at and surreptitiously tucking a parchment he’d been writing on within it. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep either.” Harry sat on the desk, wondering what Malfoy was hiding. “What were you thinking about?” he asked. 

Malfoy held up his arm to indicate the runes on his wrist. “Take a wild guess.” 

“Fair enough, I just figured you’d be tired.” He wished Malfoy would get more rest, but he supposed he couldn’t expect Malfoy to relax. Malfoy probably had nightmares, too, he realized. The thought felt alien, and gave him a strange, tight feeling in his chest, like when he’d caught Malfoy crying in the bathroom. 

“I am tired.” Malfoy closed the book in his lap and leaned his bruised face into his hand. “But sleep doesn’t help much.” 

“Is there anything that would help?” Harry asked, feeling somewhat responsible. He’d begun thinking of Malfoy as a sort of awkward houseguest. 

Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes half shut. “If you really want to help me, just put me out of my misery.” 

“Don’t say that,” Harry said. It wasn’t the first time Malfoy had tossed out some dismal remark like that, but every time it disturbed Harry a little more. 

“Worried I’m going to off myself?” Malfoy reached behind him and tossed one of the Ministry parchments to Harry. He wore a particularly nasty version of his usual smirk. “Apparently I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Learned that, tonight. Not only can I not harm you, I can’t harm myself, either.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m stuck between Azkaban and basically being enslaved to my good old friend Harry Potter, and I can’t even take the third door out.” 

Harry looked down at the parchment in his hands. None of this was his fault, really, but he still felt miserably guilty. 

“So don’t worry,” Malfoy continued, giving him a sarcastic smile and throwing his arms wide. “You’ve got me for as long as you want me.” 

Harry twisted the scroll in his hands. He had all the power he didn’t want in this situation, and no ability to do the things he _actually_ wanted. Like free Malfoy, or end the whole program, or reform Azkaban. It was infuriating. Trust the Ministry to come up with something this twisted. 

He turned his attention back to Malfoy. “Regardless of whether you can actually act on it or not, I just don’t want you to think like that.” 

“Going to tell me what I can _think_ now?” 

“ _No_ , I just…” Harry trailed off, wishing for the millionth time he was better with words. “I just don’t want you to be that miserable. I...I feel responsible, I guess.” 

“Thank you for the sentiment, Potter, but I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.” 

Harry looked down at the parchment he’d crumpled in his hands. It wasn’t like he was exactly in a position to be giving advice. The only way he knew to make his thoughts go away was drinking. “Well, is there anything I can do to help? Besides...that?” 

Malfoy looked at him for a long time, his eyes sharp. “Why would you want to help me?” he asked finally. 

Harry swallowed, chose his words carefully. “Because...when I see someone in a bad situation, I imagine how I would feel, if it were me. And it makes me want to help.” 

“My ‘situation’ makes you want to help me? I’d imagine you’d find it amusing. It’s sort of poetic justice, isn’t it?” 

“Interesting definition of justice,” Harry said. “And no, I don’t find it amusing.” 

“You do know,” Malfoy said, “If I had ever gotten the opportunity to make you miserable, I would have seized it with both hands.” 

“Would you?” Harry said, honestly curious. He knew Malfoy was a Slytherin, and he’d been a bully back in school. But when the chips were down and Harry had been a prisoner at Malfoy’s family home, he hadn’t identified them to the Death Eaters. To Harry, that counted for a lot. 

“You know how much I despised you, back in school.”

“And if I showed up on your doorstep five years later,” Harry asked, “Looking like I’d been to hell and back? What would you do then?” 

“Do I look that bad?” Malfoy said in mock offense, reaching up to straighten his hair. 

Harry didn’t laugh. He didn’t find the terrible state of Malfoy’s health very funny. 

Malfoy sighed. He drummed his fingers on the book in front of him, staring down at his wrist. 

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “I don't think I really knew what hell looked like, back then.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, besides ‘sorry,’ and he didn’t think Malfoy would appreciate it. 

But then Malfoy broke the silence himself. “You know, back in third year, I never really understood what bothered you so much. About the Dementors, I mean.” Malfoy took a deep breath, scrubbed a hand over his face with a sharp wince. “But now I get it,” he continued. “Let’s just say, if they want to torture me, they have plenty of memories to choose from now.”

“You mean…” Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, voice breathless. “The Dementors are back at Azkaban?” 

Malfoy was silent. 

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry. I never wanted anyone to understand what that felt like. Even you.” 

Malfoy shrugged. “I mocked you for it. Guess I deserved it.”

“No. You didn’t.” 

Malfoy was staring down, his eyes far away. “Your memories…they were awful things that happened to you. But mine...I built them myself. They were all my choices. My mistakes.” 

“That’s what they do,” Harry said. “They tie your thoughts up in knots, lead you around in circles. Make you feel like every bad thing in the world is your fault, like all of it’s coming for you at once.” He swallowed, hard, that bad taste in the back of his mouth again. He still remembered that cold, poisonous feeling, the unforgiving, viscous misery pooling in his veins. “I…I know better than to try and change your mind. But for what it’s worth, I...” he trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words. _You didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry._ Everything he could say sounded hollow, in the face of everything that had happened. 

“You what?” Malfoy whispered. 

Harry set the parchment down on the desk, cracked his knuckles, considering. He wanted to tell Malfoy he didn’t think he was that awful of a person, through and through. Even back then, he’d recognized Malfoy as a scared teenager, stuck in a bad situation. Just like Harry had been. But in the end, all Harry came out with was, “Sorry, I’m...bad at this.” 

Malfoy smirked. “You’re a lot more comforting than the Dementors are.” 

Harry shivered, imagining waking up from a nightmare, cold and alone, with nothing but Dementors for company. “Hell ain’t flames,” he said finally, for lack of anything better. 

“No,” Malfoy agreed. “It’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at our boys, actually talking about their feelings! Kind of! haha
> 
> The Dementors are one of my favorite things in Harry Potter, I've always seen them as a metaphor for PTSD and the way it makes people feel. The fact that they affect the most traumatized people the most is super chilling to me and makes them super scary. 
> 
> Anyway as always please leave your thoughts <3 thanks for reading


	8. In which Draco finally finds some honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to ges_who, who said that healthy (ish) communication was their kink. Hope you enjoy!  
> In all seriousness, thanks to each and every one of you who's still reading, this story is a blast to write.

Draco looked up at Potter, who was still perched on the desk in the Black family office. His green eyes were fixed on the floor, but Draco could tell he was a long ways away in his head. Draco took the moment to study him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, Draco realized. And his hair was tousled like he’d just woken up. Then again, Potter’s hair had never been neat in his life. 

As Draco regarded his old rival, he felt strangely nostalgic. He’d give anything to go back to bickering with Potter in a hallway at Hogwarts. And it had been a long, long time since he’d seen a familiar face. Sure, he’d spent most of their years together fighting, but Potter was still his classmate, and someone he knew fairly well. Potter felt almost like a friend. 

That was all Draco had wanted, when they’d first met. And sure, he’d been trying to climb the social ladder, get close to the famous Boy Who Lived. But Potter’s rejection had still stung. _Cause you were being a twat to his friend,_ a voice in Draco’s head reminded him. As he was quickly learning, that was the one thing that really set Potter off. 

“What are you thinking about?” Potter asked. 

Draco looked back up, trying to think of something. Before he could, the truth came out of his mouth. “That after all these years, you’re probably the closest thing I’ve got to a friend.”

“I’m a bit of a sorry excuse for one,” Potter said, reaching up to push his glasses up his nose before seeming to realize he wasn’t wearing them. 

Draco resisted the urge to smile. “I could do a lot worse.” 

Potter rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You’re probably the closest thing I’ve got left too, at this point.” 

Draco tilted his head to the side, trying to hold himself back from asking. He couldn’t help it. “What about Ron? And Hermione?”

Potter shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going anywhere.”

Potter bit his lip, lost in thought. “I told you...Ginny, she left...right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, like I said, it was my fault. I had let her down, over and over again. Finally, she told me she wasn’t going to watch me destroy myself any more. But if I ever decided I wanted to start trying, to live again, to give her a call. Cause she’d never stop being my friend.” Potter sighed. “That’s always how she was. Never the kind of person to turn her back on someone. But in the end, I guess I turned my back on her. And after that, I couldn’t face Ron. It took him a long time to accept that Ginny and I were seeing each other--he was mad, at first--and I didn’t know what he’d do.” Potter leaned back on his hands, shrugged. “Not such a long story after all, I guess.”

“What about Hermione?” 

“She’s married to Ron. And I figured she’d be mad at me, too. Besides, they had both tried to help me, too, just like Ginny. But I didn’t want help, back then.” Potter took a deep breath, spat his words out almost painfully. “So no, I don’t think any of them want to see my face.” 

Draco considered, for a moment. Why did Potter assume his friend’s first reaction to him would be anger? He wondered what Potter’s childhood had been like. Potter never talked about the Muggles who raised him, even though Draco was pretty sure he remembered that they had been related to him. And Potter had never had a problem with Muggles, had never looked down on them. They’d raised him for almost seventeen years, so why weren’t they close? He remembered Potter’s words from before, _I won’t live with someone who treats me like garbage. I’ve been there and done that, believe me._ It didn’t sound like Ginny, or Ron and Hermione, or the Weasleys, had treated him like garbage. Had the Muggles, then? 

In any case, he didn’t think Potter would appreciate him digging up his childhood, so he tried a different tact. “Tell me, Potter, why haven’t you punched me in the face yet? Or hexed me?” 

Potter made a strangled noise of frustration. “I told you, Malfoy, it’s not a fair fight. And besides, you’re already hurt. Why the hell would I do that?”

“But you were angry, when you first saw me. And I made you angry this morning, too. I dared you to hurt me, and you didn’t even reach for your wand. Why not?” 

“Because I have some semblance of self-control. And you’ve been in prison for years, you’ve clearly been tortured, I’m not going to go out of my way to hurt you just ‘cause I’m mad.”

“But we were never friends. We were enemies.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop acting like a human being.” 

Draco leaned forward, looked at Potter until he caught his eyes, and held them. “So then, Potter, why don’t you give your friends the same credit?” 

“What do you mean?” Potter asked, sounding wary. 

“You just assume they’re all going to be furious with you, and yeah, they probably were annoyed, at first. But you were friends for over seven years, you lived together, you defeated a dark wizard together. And you’re clearly in a bad way,” he added, gesturing at Potter’s wrinkled, dirty attire and thin form. “You think your friends don’t have any self-restraint? Any patience? Any compassion?”

Potter looked away. “Even if they did, I probably wore that out years ago. Maybe at this point, I’m better off alone.” 

Draco let out an angry huff of exasperation. “Really, Potter? You think they’d want that for you?”

Potter opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off. “I don’t get you. You’re not stuck in this house, like me. You have people who want to help you, a whole world of opportunities, and you don’t even leave your door. It’s like you’ve already decided you’re going to die here, alone.” 

Potter stood, and Draco managed not to flinch. 

“Maybe I have,” Potter said. “Maybe the world doesn’t need me anymore.” 

Draco gave him a short, sarcastic laugh. “Spoken like the Savior of the Wizarding World. Maybe the world doesn’t need you, but you don’t think your friends do?” 

“They got married, got a house. I’m sure they’re very happy.” Potter sounded bitter. 

“If Ron accepted you seeing his sister, you can’t very well be mad at him for marrying your friend.” 

Potter folded his arms. “I’m not _mad,_ I just...I just don’t think they need me hanging around anymore.” Potter swallowed thickly. “Sometimes I think everyone would be happier if I just locked myself in a closet somewhere and never came out, so they could all finally forget I existed.” 

“That’s a terribly cruel thing to say about yourself,” Draco said, wondering who had made Potter believe it, as he clearly did. 

“I’m just being honest.” He ran his hand through his hair, looked away. “You want some coffee, since we’re apparently staying up all night?”

“That was a terrible deflection, Potter, even for you.” 

“It’s not a deflection,” Potter insisted. “I just want some coffee.” 

Draco sighed. “Fine. Let’s have some coffee.” 

“So,” Potter began, looking at Draco over the rim of his mug, “What were you reading about?” 

Draco wondered if Potter was actually suspicious, or if he was just trying to deflect again from their earlier conversation. Draco was certainly not going to tell him the truth, that he’d been looking for information on the runes. Not that he’d found any. 

“Honestly, Potter, I was just bored. Stop trying to change the subject.” 

“You’re the one changing the subject. And I saw you hide something, earlier.” 

“Am I not allowed any privacy, whatsoever?” Draco took a sip of his perfectly sweet coffee. Potter had dug through the kitchen drawers, and finally used an _Accio_ spell, until some sugar packets had come flying down from the top of his fridge. Draco hadn’t even asked him for sugar; Potter had just done it. Another one of those little things, that made Draco feel a tiny bit safer. He wasn’t sure what Potter’s reaction would be, however, if he knew Draco were looking for a way to escape. 

“You’re living in my house, I have a right to ask what you’re up to. And I didn’t look at what you were writing, and I’m not going to. I’m just curious why you’re up so late, reading a bunch of dry old spell books.” 

Truthfully, although he hadn’t found anything, reading had been oddly comforting. Almost like he was back in school. Although he’d never admit to being such a nerd, Draco had always liked learning all he could about magic. 

“Alright, fine,” Draco said, steeling himself. “I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me something in return.” 

Potter took another sip of coffee, licked his lips. “Okay. Shoot.” 

“Why don’t you talk about the Muggles who raised you?” 

“We didn’t get along. What were you reading about?”

“Old magic,” Draco replied. 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“Neither was yours.” 

Potter leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Okay, fine.” He traced the rim of his mug with a finger. “They...they weren’t very nice to me. They were awful, if I’m being honest. My aunt had always resented her sister for having magic, maybe even hated her, maybe was even a little bit afraid of her. And she looked at me the same way. My uncle resented having to take care of me, and my cousin just looked at me as someone to pick on. So...yeah. There was no love lost between us.” He looked back up at Draco. “Why do you care?” 

“Just curious. Psychoanalyzing my current captor doesn’t seem like a bad idea.” In truth, Draco was just trying to figure out what made Potter tick, why he was being so damn nice. And why the Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Chosen One who defeated Lord Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, had such an abysmal view of himself. He’d imagined Potter would have a giant ego; the entirety of wizardkind regarded him as a legendary hero. Instead, Potter’s self esteem was in the gutter, and seemingly had been for a long time. It made sense, a little, learning about his past. Sure, he’d been a celebrity for almost as many years now, but the things that happened when a person was young had a stronger effect. Draco could attest to that. He was living proof. 

“Alright, now you have to answer my question,” Potter reminded him. “Fair’s fair.” 

Right. Draco had forgotten about that. He’d been too invested in their conversation about Potter; he’d neglected to even come up with a lie. But there was no way he could tell the truth--Potter would just send him back to Azkaban. 

He was hesitating too long. He needed to say something. He could feel his neck getting hot. 

“What _were_ you reading about?” Potter asked again, sounding even more curious now. 

Draco tried to command his brain to _think_ dammit, but he was too exhausted to be convincing. Besides, Potter could always just use Legilimency on him. Potter wasn’t good at it, but Draco couldn’t perform Occlumency. The curse he was under wouldn’t allow him to hide things from his captor. 

“Will you promise me something, before I tell you?” Draco asked finally. 

Potter nodded. 

“Promise me you won’t send me back to Azkaban. Please.” The ‘please’ slipped out without his permission, but it was honest. 

Potter, blast him, had the nerve to hold out his pinkie finger. “I promise.”

Draco linked fingers with him, and shook. He took a deep breath. Neither of them let go.

“Whatever you’re going to say next, Draco, I’m not going to send you back to that hell. Honest.” 

Draco pulled his hand away. Potter had used his name again, he realized. Dammit, why did Potter have to be so convincingly sincere? Those green eyes were staring at him, still looking more concerned than suspicious. 

Draco swallowed, hard, and finally spat out the truth. “I was researching the runes. Looking for a way to break the curse.” 

“Oh.” Potter sat back in his chair again. He looked surprisingly calm. “Probably should have figured that.” 

Draco sat, his whole body tense, waiting for a stronger reaction. “I understand why you would, but please don’t send me back there. I’ll stop, I promise. You can use Legilimency, if you don’t believe me.” Draco’s hands were shaking harder than normal. He folded them in his lap. 

Potter was shaking his head. “I told you, I’m not going to do that.” 

“You threatened to, before.” 

Potter looked at him, confused, and then seemed to catch on. “I didn’t mean that as threat, I was just--”

“But you could,” Draco interrupted. “It would probably make life easier for you. I’m not sure what you’re getting out of this, since you seem uninterested in revenge.” 

“You asked me, before,” Potter began, sounding thoughtful, “Why I assumed my friends wouldn’t forgive me. So let me ask you something. Why do you assume people only interact with you as a way of ‘getting something’?”

Draco huffed softly. “Cause that’s how the world works, Potter. In every interaction, there’s always a goal, and a road to achieve it. A victor, and a victim. We’re all just trying to get things from each other. And if you’re not playing, you’re losing.” 

“That’s a dark way to see the world.” 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

“I don’t think anything I told you would change your mind,” Potter said. “But maybe I can prove you wrong, eventually.” 

Draco drained the last of his coffee, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Great. I really am a pity project, aren’t I?”

Potter just smiled and shook his head, getting up to refill Draco’s cup, and dumped a few sugars into it before setting it back down in front of him. 

They drank their coffee in silence for a long time, and then just sat, until blue light began to filter in through the basement window above them. Potter looked down at his watch, and swore. “It’s morning.”

“Brilliant observation, Potter,” Draco drawled. “Ten points to Gryffindor.” 

Potter gave him a tired half smile, and went to take a sip of coffee, before realizing his cup was empty. He set it back down with a sigh. 

“So,” Draco began cautiously, doing his best not to look nervous, “If you’re not going to send me back to Azkaban, what are you going to do?” 

Potter considered for a long moment. Draco held his breath. 

“Did you find anything promising in those books?” Potter asked eventually. 

“Not much,” Draco said, honestly, hoping Potter would be reassured. 

Potter’s expression fell, instead. He stared at the floor for a minute and then a smile spread across his face. “I might be a stereotypical dumb jock,” he said, “But I know one Gryffindor who’s not.” 

“Who’s that?” Draco was baffled as to where this could possibly be going. 

“A certain brilliant Muggle-born witch named Hermione.” He smiled wider. “If anyone could find something promising in a book, it’d be her.” 

“Thought you two weren’t talking,” Draco said slowly, still wondering what Potter was on about. 

“She might not want to see me, but she’ll want to help you.”

“Why? I called her a M--” Draco cut himself off. “I called her a lot of things. Why on earth would she help?”

“There’s a reason Hermione’s a Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw. If there’s one thing she cares about, it’s equal rights and social justice, believe me. Do you have any idea how many times Kreacher called her an M-word? And she still defended him, said he wasn’t right in the head and he should be freed. Trust me, she’ll help.” He looked up at Draco. “We’ll find a way to break this curse. I promise.” 

Potter gave him a fierce smile, more life in his eyes than Draco had seen yet. And he held out his pinkie. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *My Little Pony Friendship Is Magic theme song plays in the background*
> 
> Finally, Harry's finally decided he needs to call Hermione, finally. We'll see how that plays out in the next one, haha
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. In which Harry sees an old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of some relationshit right now, every grocery store looks like the apocalypse swept through, and this fic is such a nice distraction. I've actually written a little ahead for once, so expect another update soon. Love you all <3

Harry sat on the couch, bouncing his leg and checking his watch so often he was sure it was going backwards. 

He hadn’t given Hermione any details when he’d called her, in fact he’d barely come out with the fact that he needed her help before she was already telling him what time she’d be there. 

She’d said ten am--it was barely nine forty-five and Harry was already seated on the couch, waiting. Malfoy had been falling asleep sitting up, so he’d gone upstairs for a nap. Harry figured this would all go smoother that way, in any event, so he could fully explain the situation to Hermione before she saw Malfoy. 

He knew Hermione wouldn’t be pleased about any of this, and he didn’t need the situation worsening by her thinking _he_ was the one responsible for Malfoy’s current condition. 

He knew he was getting an earful either way, but hopefully Hermione would let him explain first. 

Precisely a minute before ten, there was a soft knock on the door. Harry leapt off the couch and then hesitated, working up his nerve. He took a deep breath, and swung the door open. 

There stood Hermione. Harry felt a bittersweet swell in his heart. God, he’d missed her. 

She looked lovely, her bushy brown hair tied back in a myriad of thick box braids down her back, her ministry robes tailored and pressed, a soft smile on her face. As he looked closer, however, he could see she was a little worn down; there was a heavy, dull fatigue in her eyes and the hang of her shoulders. 

Still, her smile widened, and she spread her arms. “Can I give you a hug, Harry?” 

Harry sprang forward and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.” 

“It’s alright. I’m just glad we’re both here now. Ron and I, and all the Weasleys, we’ve been worried.” 

Harry pulled away. “Want to come in? Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess.” He’d picked up some of the trash, at least, but he hadn’t had the energy to do much else. Hermione didn’t comment, she just came in and sat on the couch, pulling her ministry robes off as she did so and flinging them over the arm. 

“God, those things are strangling,” she said. “I feel like a Muggle judge. All I’m missing is a powdered wig.” She was wearing a much less official-looking T-shirt and jeans beneath them. 

Harry chuckled softly and flopped down on the couch next to her, already feeling strangely calm. It was nice, so nice, seeing her again. Then he remembered the conversation he needed to have, and his nerves flooded back. 

“Hermione, I...I need to tell you something. And I need you to promise to let me explain the whole situation, and not judge me until I’m through, alright?” 

“Harry…” she began. 

Harry shook his head. “Please, just...let me get this out.”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m listening.” 

“Draco Malfoy is kind of my prisoner.” That could have been phrased better. 

Hermione was opening her mouth to speak, but Harry cut her off. “Not by my choice, I mean, it sort of was, but that was only cause he, basically, double-dog-dared me too, and it seemed like he didn’t want to go back to Azkaban, which he apparently doesn’t--”

“Harry…”

“So when the Aurors showed up I signed him over to my name and now I can put him under the Imperius Curse with a snap of my fingers, hell, I can torture him, I can kill him just as easily--”

“ _Harry_ …”

“And now he’s asleep in Regulus’s old room upstairs and all I’ve fed him is a bologna sandwich and some toast and some Chinese food and he still looks half dead and I’m so, _so_ bad at this Hermione--”

“Harry!” Hermione practically shouted, finally managing to interrupt him. 

Harry put his head in his hands, waiting for the onslaught of disapproval. 

“Harry, I know. I’m part of the program.”

“You’re _what?_ ” Harry looked up at her, dumbfounded. 

“I know, I know, but I couldn’t stop it before it started, so I’m doing my best from the inside out, placing prisoners in the best environments I can, gathering evidence that the whole thing is a loathsome, money-grubbing sham.” 

“Money-grubbing?” Harry asked, momentarily distracted. He hadn’t paid so much as a single Sickle for Malfoy, as far as he knew.

“There’s certain prisoners that everyone wants, everyone’s clamoring for the higher-up Death Eaters, for instance.” Hermione curled a braid around her finger as she spoke, her face a mixture of exasperation and disgust. She looked like she’d gotten used to both emotions in the past few months. “And now, they’re letting people who ‘donate’ to the program pick who they want--the higher the donation, the higher up in line you go, of course.” She gave Harry a cynical half-smile, looking tired. “It’s monetary nepotism at its finest.” 

“But...I didn’t pay anything. And I certainly didn’t pick _him._ ” 

Hermione waved a hand. “You’re the Chosen One, you automatically got the first pick of them all. For the publicity stunt, if nothing else.” 

“They never contacted me,” Harry said, nonplussed. 

“Well, Harry…” Hermione shifted in her seat, studiously regarding her own hands. “Here’s where you have to hear _me_ out for a moment.” 

“Alright…” Harry said, starting to get a suspicious feeling in his stomach. 

“They tried to contact you, over and over again, but apparently they had about as much luck as I have the past few years…”

Harry winced internally at the slight jab. He did feel guilty about that, but at the moment, they both had more important concerns. 

“...And so anyway, they gave me the paperwork and asked me to track you down. And I knew you’d refuse, but…” Now it was Hermione’s turn to look guilty. “Draco Malfoy had just come across my desk, and I...well, he was just a kid when he committed his crimes, Harry. I still remembered his little eleven-year-old face underneath the sorting hat, I still remembered how scared and hollow he’d looked at Malfoy Manor, I still remembered how he hadn’t identified us, and I just...I couldn’t let him get hurt.” 

“So you gave him to _me?”_ Harry said, incredulous. 

“I knew you’d take care of him. Please don’t be angry, Harry, I had the best of intentions, honestly--”

“You didn’t want Malfoy to get hurt--Malfoy, the boy I’d fought with for seven years, the boy who petrified me and broke my nose, the boy who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts--you didn’t want him getting hurt, so you gave him to _me?”_ Harry shook his head. “You must think pretty damn highly of my character.” 

“I do,” Hermione said seriously. 

“I never agreed to it, so how did you know I wouldn’t send him straight back to Azkaban?”

“I saw a photograph of him in his file, covered in bruises, flinching away from the flash. He looked...he looked like such a wreck. I knew you wouldn’t be able to send him back there.”

Harry leaned back on the couch, reeling. “If you were so worried about Malfoy’s health, why didn’t you take him?” 

“I already have custody of Narcissa. And they won’t let family members be placed together.” 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief at that; at least Narcissa was safe. He couldn’t wait to tell Malfoy. He hoped Malfoy would believe that Hermione really did have the best of intentions, that Narcissa really was safe with her. 

“I ought to tell Malfoy, he’ll be pleased,” Harry said. 

“Oh, don’t wake him--”Hermione began.

“I’m awake,” came a voice from behind them. 

They both spun; Malfoy was standing in the doorway. He stepped into the room, inclined his head to Hermione. “Miss Granger. I believe I heard from the stairs that you have custody of my mother?” 

“I do,” Hermione admitted, her voice getting a little higher like it did when she was nervous. “And it’s Mrs. Granger now.” 

“May I speak with her?” Malfoy asked tightly. 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, of course, but she can’t accept a floo call on her own, so you’ll have to wait until I get home tonight, I’m sorry. I only barely snuck away from the Ministry for this long.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Granger. At your earliest convenience, of course.” Malfoy came closer to stand beside the couch, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I hope you’ll accept my deepest apologies for any offenses I may have caused you in the past. If there’s any way I can make it up to you, I sincerely hope you’ll tell me.” He paused, and looked Hermione in the eyes. “I wouldn’t dare ask you to forgive me, but I hope that any grudges you may rightfully hold, you will not extend them to my mother.” 

Hermione stood, and then stopped in her tracks at Malfoy’s small flinch. “Of course, Draco. It’s water under the bridge. And call me Hermione, please.” 

Malfoy inclined his head to her again. “Thank you, Hermione.” 

Harry sat watching the interaction unfold in shock. He’d never in his wildest dreams conceived that Malfoy was even capable of being this polite. Malfoy had been barely anything but cheeky and rude to Harry since he arrived, and Harry quite literally held Malfoy’s life in his hands. But obviously, he reminded himself, Malfoy’s pride wouldn’t matter to him in the slightest when it came to Narcissa. He’d clearly do anything to see her safe; he’d practically bitten Harry’s head off when Harry had so much as mentioned her. 

Hermione was looking at Malfoy, studying him. Then she rounded on Harry. “You haven’t even healed him yet, Harry? Or given him a change of clothes?”

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but Malfoy intervened for him. 

“He’s offered me both. I declined.”

Hermione looked back and forth between them again. “And you’re making him wear that hideous jumper?” 

“It’s not _that_ hideous,” Harry protested. 

“Was trying to make you get rid of that thing for almost two years--” Hermione continued.

“It is hideous, isn’t it?” Malfoy put in. “Thank you, Hermione.” 

Harry rolled his eyes at the both of them. “It’s the most comfortable thing I own, I told you, I’m not throwing out my favorite jumper just cause it isn’t fashionable, it’s not like I go anywhere--”

“Not like I’m going anywhere either,” Malfoy added. 

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed fifteen past, and Hermione jumped. “Oh no, I really need to get going…” 

“One more thing,” Harry said hurriedly. “The curse, that keeps people imprisoned, have you any idea yet how to break it?” 

Hermione shook her head, scooping up her Ministry robes from the arm of the couch. “Not yet, but I’m working on it. Why don’t you call me tonight, and we can talk about what I’ve found. And Draco can speak with Narcissa.” 

“Alright,” Harry agreed, as Hermione was already heading for the door, checking her watch. 

She stopped before she got to it, and turned back to give Harry a tight hug. “Be sure you actually do call me this time, you git.” 

“I will, I will,” Harry said. 

Hermione looked back at Malfoy. “Your mother is safe with me, Draco. I promise you.” 

Malfoy nodded at her one last time, and then she swept out the door, Disapparating with a crack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've finally decided the direction I want this story to go.  
> I was considering a more plot-heavy, suspenseful version, but honestly I just kind of want to write about the relationships developing and stuff, and I like the sort of quiet, intimate tone I've created and I want to keep it. 
> 
> Hopefully y'all won't think it's too boring, haha. I still have some twists planned for their relationship and stuff, and Ron will be showing up later because I unapologetically love Ron and he gets the worst rep. #StopTheSmearCampaignOnRonWeasley2020 
> 
> Hope you guys liked Hermione! Someone buy the poor woman a cup of coffee, lol, she's been through enough already.  
> (Side note, I'm white so I'm sure it hits different for black people but I love that Hermione is black in Cursed Child, it makes so much sense. I know a lot of people saw her as black before, but I'm just so happy she was played by a black actress in the stage show. Such a blessed decision, like it single-handedly cleansed all Rowling's bad tweets from existence. I love seeing all the support for it in the fandom as well, and I wanted to add my little piece to it. Hermione is black in this, not that it really changes much lol.)
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed, next one coming soon, please leave a comment, etc. <3


	10. In which Draco feels the pain of the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the title didn't tip you off, this is going to be an angsty one.  
> Sorry it's a little short, but I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (Read the ending notes if you want a sort-of content warning. It's a story about PTSD so I kind of assume we're all on board for in-depth depictions of it)

Draco was sitting on the edge of the desk in the office, picking at the remains of the tuna fish sandwich Potter had bought him for lunch. It wasn’t the best thing he’d ever eaten, and tasted rather like it was purchased at a petrol station, but at least it was food, and after managing to eat most of it, he _was_ feeling better. 

Potter was sitting behind the desk, looking through the notes Draco had taken last night. They were sparse, Draco had to admit, more ranting than information. Whatever the curse was, exactly, it seemed like something the Ministry itself had come up with. 

Draco’s thoughts strayed back to his meeting with Hermione. She had seemed sincere, and Draco couldn’t honestly picture her being truly cruel. The one thing that had terrified him the most in this situation had been not knowing where his mother was, but she was safe. Merlin, she was _safe._ And he was going to _talk to her._ He hadn’t even laid eyes on her since almost four years ago, when they’d been dragged past each other through some Ministry hallway, reaching for each other and shouting ‘I love you’s as the Aurors pulled them away. 

He felt himself tearing up, and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. He didn’t want to cry in front of Potter; he’d embarrassed himself enough already. 

He still couldn’t believe Potter was actually trying to _help_ him break the curse, instead of being furious. He’d fully expected to be sent back to Azkaban. He’d half expected to be chained up in the basement, and in the darkest corner of his mind, he’d expected the pain to begin. But no, Harry Potter the Savior of Wizardkind had decided to help him, instead.

And apparently, if what Draco had heard as he was coming downstairs was correct, it had been Hermione who placed him with Potter. So Potter had been telling him the truth, about never wanting this in the first place. But despite that, Potter had still taken care of him. 

It was a mental jigsaw puzzle, the way Potter was treating him. Draco had been turning it over and over in his mind, but no matter how he moved the pieces around, he couldn’t make them fit. Every time he arrived at the conclusion that Potter was just being nice, the rest of him would retort, _No, no one’s that nice,_ and the process would start over again. 

Draco’s gaze settled on him as Potter shuffled through parchments, teeth sunk into his lower lip in concentration, fingers rising every once in a while to push his glasses back up his nose. Draco found himself captivated--and it wasn’t merely by the spectacle of a Gryffindor trying to read. It was something in Potter’s brilliant green eyes as they flickered over Draco’s neat, back-slanted cursive, something in the way his lips occasionally moved, reading a spell, something in the way he tousled his hair every now and again in pure absentmindedness, only ever succeeding in making it messier. 

Draco looked away, cheeks warming as he realized he’d been staring. He’d just been bored, waiting for Potter to be done, he told himself. That was it. 

“Are you through yet?” Draco asked for at least the fifth time, even though Potter clearly wasn’t. 

“I’m getting there,” Potter huffed. “It’s not exactly light reading.”

“Sorry I neglected to use only one-syllable words, I was unaware you’d be attempting to decipher it.” 

Potter rolled his eyes a little, and finally folded the last parchment. “Well, it’s not much, but at least we know it’s related to the curse they used to use on house-elves.” Potter leaned back, removed his glasses to rub his eyes. “You said Kreacher recognized the runes?”

“Yes, but he said they were impossible to escape. I think he was telling the truth, he seems to say everything he’s thinking out loud.” 

“That he does,” Potter agreed. He looked lost in thought. “There’s got to be some way to break it, especially if I’m involved--like the clothes, with house-elves.” 

“I think this curse is related to something older. And I think the Ministry tampered with it a good amount. I doubt it would be that simple.” 

“You’re probably right,” Potter said, heaving a sigh. “I just wish this whole nightmare were over.”

“Sorry you’ve been mildly inconvenienced by my enslavement, Potter,” Draco said, a little miffed. 

Potter looked up sharply. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant, I just…” He trailed off. “If it’s been a nightmare for me, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

Draco shook his head. “A blur, honestly.” He’d been sure living with Potter would be a nightmare, but in truth, it felt more like a daydream. A pleasant daydream where he lived in Potter’s house and Potter was kind and his mother was safe. Where no one was hurting him, and he was getting stronger.

He wondered vaguely if he wasn’t still back in Azkaban, having a long, weird hallucination. 

They’d mixed hallucinogens into his food before, and usually the visions were terrible. But he remembered once imagining, being absolutely sure, that he was back at Malfoy Manor, and his mother was there, making tea and singing softly to herself. It had been quiet, and peaceful, and when he’d finally sobered and realized where he was, it had been unbearable. No company but the rattling breaths of Dementors, nothing but cold, dripping stone and echoing screams. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Potter asked, but Draco couldn’t find air in his throat to answer him. 

What if this really were all in his head? What if it was still that night before he’d left for Potter’s house, when he’d been lying on his back, stomach hollowed out with hunger, thoughts racing? 

Once the thought took hold, it wouldn’t let go, and Draco’s fingers were shaking harder. He tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but drawing in air felt like breathing sand. _What if it’s not real, it’s not real—_

His breaths were shallower now, stabbing in and out of his lungs, burning his throat. 

“Draco...” he heard Potter say, distantly. 

What if he was still back in that place? He couldn’t go back, he couldn’t. Not after...whatever this was. It would break him. 

He’d slipped onto the floor, back pressed against the desk. He felt movement beside him, and pulled his arms up to shield himself. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe…”

But it wasn’t okay, he wasn’t safe, he was never going to escape--the shakes in his fingers, the nightmares, none of it was going away, ever. He’d never be through paying. Fragmented memories came back to him in small details: icy, slimy stone beneath his bare feet, that moldy, fetid stench in his nose, an Auror shoving a wand in his face, “You’ve got nowhere to go,” three cold walls behind him, bars in front of him, iron, shadow, stone, rot. 

There was nothing, nothing for him. Nothing to his back but pain, nothing ahead of him but anger. 

He heard a whisper, and tried to block it out, but slowly, he began to realize it was Potter’s voice, speaking to him. 

“...Safe, you’re okay, you’re at number 12 Grimmauld Place in London, your name is Draco Lucius Malfoy, you’re safe, it’s three pm on a Sunday, December second, you’re okay…” 

He tried to focus on the voice, let it guide him, but the panic had its fingers around his throat, and as hard as he tried he couldn’t breathe. The voice seemed to get further away, as if Potter was onshore and Draco was sinking, deeper and deeper underwater. He could feel himself shaking, chest aching, throat closing.

Potter moved, and Draco gave a stuttering flinch, raising his arms higher.

“I’m not gonna touch you, don’t worry, I’m not gonna touch you. But I’m here, if you need something to hold onto.” 

Potter offered his arm, and Draco reached for it tremulously and closed his shivering fingers around Potter’s wrist. 

It helped, a little, and Draco could feel himself getting closer to the surface. He gripped Potter’s arm harder. 

And then the searing pain hit him, running up his arms and into his chest, squeezing at his heart, like fingers of liquid fire. Draco’s whole body shook, his fingers squeezed tighter, as fireworks of agony exploded behind his eyes. 

Why was he being tortured? Who was hurting him? 

Potter was trying to pull his arm away, but Draco couldn’t let go, it was his only comfort, his only anchor, against whatever had him in its clutches. 

He’d given up breathing, just focusing on clenching his jaw against the pain. It felt like every nerve in his body was burning, like he had boiling lava in his veins instead of blood. His head felt like it was swelling, like his eyes would burst out of his skull. 

Potter finally ripped his arm away, and Draco’s hand grasped uselessly at empty air. The pain receded, the floor came up to meet him--but Potter’s hand intervened, cradled his head. 

Draco stared up at the bright green eyes looking back at his, at the face creased with worry, the lips moving soundlessly. It was the last thing he saw before his vision faded black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Draco :( I usually don't feel bad for characters while I'm writing them but...oof.
> 
> This is my first time trying to go *this* in depth into someone having a flashback/panic attack/paranoid thoughts, they say "write what you know" but damn this was still hard. I don't know what helps other people, but for me, listing all the facts I know is one of my favorite grounding routines, so that's what I had Harry do. It really depends on the person, I think, but I feel like that would help Draco, too. 
> 
> I've thought about this too much, I need to sleep lol. Pretty please tell me your thoughts on this one, even if it's criticism <3  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. I forgot to mention, I've broken 20,000 words on this fic! that's the most I've ever written of a single story, and definitely the most I've written in such a short amount of time, I'm really proud. Thank you guys for all the support and encouragement!


	11. In which Harry tries to be a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind remarks on the last one! Sorry this one took a little while to finish. Please enjoy <3

Harry was kneeling beside Malfoy’s unconscious form, feeling chills rising down his arms. He was whispering every swear word he knew, trying to remember the spell to wake someone up from...what, fainting? He wasn’t sure what had caused Malfoy to pass out, whether it had been the curse, or just the pain. 

It had taken Harry a moment to understand what was happening. At first he’d thought Malfoy was just panicking harder, but then he’d seen the runes on Malfoy’s wrist burning and glowing, and put two and two together. The curse had decided Malfoy’s grip on Harry was a little too tight, and punished Malfoy for attempting to harm the holder of its contract. 

He felt guilty for even offering his arm, but it had seemed to help, at first. And he never would have guessed the curse would take an innocent gesture as assault. 

Looking down at his arm, he had to admit Malfoy  _ had _ been holding onto him pretty damn hard. He had fat red marks around his wrist, and he could already tell they’d fade to bruises. He hadn’t even noticed any pain, he’d been too worried about Malfoy. 

Looking back at Malfoy’s pale, pinched face, Harry finally recalled the spell-- _ Enervate.  _ He pulled out his wand, and then hesitated. Would this count as working magic on Malfoy without his consent? It seemed necessary, as it had been full minutes, and shaking him and talking to him hadn’t worked, but Harry  _ had _ promised. Eventually, he decided using the spell fell under the grounds of a sort of CPR, and whatever Malfoy’s reaction was, Harry would face it once he knew Malfoy was safe. 

Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy and whispered,  _ “Enervate,”  _ putting all his concern and energy behind it. Malfoy gasped, shuddered, and rolled over, away from Harry. 

Harry put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Ma--Draco?” 

Malfoy attempted to sit up, and then laid down on his back again, hands clutching his head. He blinked up at Harry. 

“Are you...Are you okay?” 

Malfoy’s lips moved, he sucked in a long, shaky breath. He whispered something, Harry had to strain to make it out. “I’ve certainly been better, Potter.”

Trust Malfoy to still be sassy while waking up from some torture-induced, magical coma. 

Harry sighed, softly, feeling a little of his panic bleed away. “I’m sorry, Malfoy, I didn’t mean for that to happen.” 

Malfoy rubbed his forehead, looked at his wrists, where the runes were still faintly glowing, and then surveyed the marks on Harry’s arm. 

“Oh,” he muttered. “The curse. I’m an idiot.” 

“I didn’t think that would happen, I didn’t mean for it to...I swear.” 

Malfoy pushed himself off the ground to lean back against the desk. Harry wanted to reach out and help, but he didn’t think Malfoy would appreciate being touched. 

They sat there in silence for a moment, Harry simply reassuring himself Malfoy was awake and breathing. 

And then Malfoy spoke, still staring at the floor. “Can’t imagine what you’re thinking about me right now.” His voice was quiet, and a little hoarse. “Hope that was amusing to watch, at least,” he said bitterly, dropping his head into his hands.

Harry bit his lip. “Draco…”

“Don’t.” Malfoy swallowed, seemingly with difficulty. “Whatever you’re going to say, please, just...don’t.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, wishing he had Hermione’s skill with words. He’d probably be better off keeping his mouth shut anyway, he’d never succeeded in making Malfoy feel better before. But it hurt, seeing Malfoy so disgusted with himself for having an involuntary reaction to whatever horrifying memories his mind had been lost in. 

“I’m not...thinking anything about you,” Harry said, “I’m just glad you’re alright.” 

Malfoy dropped his hands from his face, and stared at the red marks on Harry’s arm, swearing quietly. “I’m sorry, Potter, I didn’t realize how hard I was grabbing you.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, covering his wrist with his other hand. He remembered the spell he’d used, and felt his guilt creep back. “Malfoy, I have a confession…”

Malfoy finally met his gaze, eyes narrowed. 

“When you were unconscious, I couldn’t wake you up, so I...I used a spell. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want me to, but I was scared you were never going to wake up.” 

Malfoy looked away. “Wish you’d left me alone.” He looked at his arms, balled his hands into fists, the scar-like runes catching the light. “But I understand,” he said finally. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, not really knowing what he was apologizing for. All of it, he supposed. That Harry had used magic on him, that Malfoy was stuck here, that the curse had tortured him, all of it.

“It’s okay,” Malfoy said. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” 

“It’s alright, it’s nothing, really. You got hurt a lot worse.” 

Malfoy chuckled mirthlessly. “That was...I don’t even have words.” 

Harry winced in sympathy. It had looked bad enough, he didn’t want to imagine how it had felt. He was doubly glad, now, that he’d never allowed himself to retaliate at Malfoy, not physically, at least. Malfoy couldn’t even lay a hand on him without passing out. He’d known, before, that Malfoy couldn’t fight back, but seeing it up close was something different. It was chilling, how defenseless Malfoy was, how easy it would be to hurt him. 

The weight of Harry’s responsibility hit him, and he felt slightly sick. He chastised himself. Whatever he was experiencing at the moment, it had to be a hundred times worse for Malfoy. “You should get some more sleep,” he said. 

Malfoy rubbed his eyes. “Sleep sounds nice, if I can manage it.” 

“Why don’t you get some rest, and I’ll cook us some dinner.” 

“If by ‘cook,’ you mean stuffing a piece of meat pancake between two slices of bread, knock yourself out.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth turned up in a smile. If Malfoy was back to his usual, drawling mockery, he must be feeling at least a little better. Malfoy was right, though, he was out of groceries. 

“Alright, fair point, you get some rest, I’ll go to the market, get us some real food.” 

Malfoy nodded weakly.

Harry rose, and offered Malfoy his hand. “Think you can stand?” 

Malfoy reached up and took it, allowing Harry to haul him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and Harry reached out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a moment, and then Harry looked up, right into Malfoy’s tired blue eyes. 

“Thank you,” Malfoy whispered. 

Harry wasn’t sure what he was being thanked for, but the unfiltered sincerity in Malfoy’s voice made him uncomfortable. He realized they were still holding onto each other’s hands, realized his other hand was still on Malfoy’s shoulder, and took a step back, stuffing both his hands in his pockets. “Don’t, uh, don’t mention it.” 

Malfoy was still staring at him, intently, but finally, he looked away. “I’ll go...have a lie down then.” 

“Alright…” Harry said, watching Malfoy walk unsteadily out the door of the office toward Regulus's room. ‘Thank you’ for what? Harry was pretty sure the only mildly helpful thing he’d done had gotten Malfoy tortured, and Malfoy certainly hadn’t appreciated Harry waking him by magic. Pushing his curiosity away, Harry headed downstairs to grab his jacket and backpack, and then headed out into the cold, grey day to do some shopping. 

Harry pushed open the door to the House of Black an hour or so later, as quietly as he could with his arms laden with grocery bags. He’d expected Malfoy to be asleep, by now, but when Harry stepped inside, he heard a muffled, echoing crash from the second floor. Dropping his shopping in the hallway, he ran up the stairs. When he got to the landing, he stopped short. The door to Malfoy’s current bedroom was open. Harry heard another crash, and peaked around the doorframe. 

Malfoy was punching the wall beside the bed with his bare fists, a sea of broken china and glass around him on the floor. As Harry watched, Malfoy picked up a dusty crystal lamp from the bedside table, and hurled it to the opposite side of the room. 

Harry jumped back as it shattered like a firework, raining shards over the furniture like a vicious snowstorm from the force Malfoy threw it with. 

Malfoy looked around the room, apparently searching for something else to fling at the wall, but then his gaze fell on Harry hovering near the doorway. 

Harry pushed the door open further, a little intimidated but reminding himself that, if worse came to worse, Malfoy couldn’t hurt him. 

Malfoy folded his arms, eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Potter?”

“Seems whatever curse stops you from harming me doesn’t extend to my possessions,” Harry said, stepping slowly into the room. 

“No. I suppose if you’re upset, you’ll have to do something about it yourself.” Malfoy’s expression was caustic, his glare cold and his jaw clenched.

“It’s not like I’m particularly attached to anything in this rotten old house,” Harry said carefully. Not like his godfather had been, either. “So no, I’m not  _ upset _ . But you certainly seem—“

“I think I have a right to be angry.” 

He had a point there. His situation was infuriating. And as coping mechanisms went, it could certainly be worse. Harry had chucked plenty of bottles at the wall himself, in the early days after the war. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asked, realizing how stupid he sounded even as he spoke.

Malfoy stepped closer, kicking broken glass out of the way with his bare feet, until he was standing very close, their faces inches apart. “No, Potter, I don’t want to  _ talk.  _ Especially not to you.” 

Harry wanted to back away, but there was a stubborn streak down his spine, and Malfoy always seemed to bring it out. He held his ground. 

“No, you’re right. Beating up your bedroom walls is a much better idea. Very mature.” 

“Fine, let’s talk.” Malfoy took a step back, arms still folded. “What do you want me to say? That I’m furious? At you, at the Ministry, at—“ 

“I think you’re mad at yourself,” Harry guessed, cutting him off. 

Malfoy was silent. 

“You showed me a chink in your armor earlier, and now you’re getting defensive again.” 

Malfoy laughed bitterly. “What armor? I’ve been flinching and panicking ever since I got here like a—a scared little kid. I used to jump at any chance I got to fight you, now I jump every time you move. Of course I’m mad at myself, I’m disgusted, I’m—“

“I think you’re brave,” Harry interrupted. “You said it yourself, you’ve been through hell on earth, and lived. You’ve been standing up for yourself this entire time.” 

Malfoy was speechless for a few moments, just looking at him. He seemed to be trying to work out whether Harry was mocking him or not. “That’s charitable of you, but…” He looked away, down at the glass around his feet. “If my father could see me now…” He shook his head. 

“He’d probably give you a hug,” Harry supplied, hoping the thought would be a tiny bit comforting. 

Malfoy just smirked. “You clearly don’t know my father.” 

“No, I guess I don’t.” Not for the first time, he wondered what their relationship had been like. Nothing good, by the sound of it. 

Malfoy unfolded his arms and wrapped them around himself, still staring at the floor. 

He looked very vulnerable, standing there in the midst of the wreckage he’d created, like another piece of hollow, broken china. Harry knew all too well what it was like, having a parental figure look at you with nothing but disgust in their eyes, knowing that whatever shape you twisted yourself into, you’d never please them. Although in the Dursley’s opinion, Harry had always been too much, just by existing. He suspected, to Lucius, that Malfoy had never been enough—even when he was trying as hard as he could. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, wanting to be of some comfort but stumbling over his words, as always. “If...if your father was disappointed in you, that’s on him.” 

Malfoy sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes far away. “No. He was right. I’ve never been anything but weak.” 

“I don’t think you’re weak.” 

“And what makes you think I give a damn about your opinion?” 

“Because any time you show any kind of vulnerability, you lash out at me just to prove a point,” Harry shot back. “Just like you’re doing right now.” 

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out. When he eventually spoke, his voice was quiet. “Well. Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out then.” 

“No, I really don’t. I’m just starting to notice a pattern, that’s all. But it wouldn’t kill you to let your guard down, just a little.” 

“It’s all I have,” Malfoy whispered. He looked back up at Harry, and Harry thought his eyes might be a little wet. “Now would you please just leave me alone, Potter?” 

Harry sighed. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll...I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need me.” As he stepped out of the room and headed toward the stairs, he heard Malfoy’s door slam violently behind him, and heard a fist smash into it repeatedly. He paused and turned back, and then decided that if Malfoy wanted to take his anger out on the walls, he was going to let him. It had to come out sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave me a comment, they mean the world <3
> 
> P.S. Lucius Malfoy if you’re reading this Fuck You you’re clearly a terrible father


	12. In which Draco gets his first taste of Muggle spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally uploaded this chapter without editing it, so here it is again. It's a long one cause I needed a distraction, hopefully you enjoy loves <3

Draco was standing in front of his bedroom door, panting, fists still raised and knuckles bloody. Curse Potter, and that way he had of getting under Draco’s skin. 

_I don’t think you're weak._

How could Harry not think him weak? Draco recalled his panic attack from earlier—he was no stranger to them, but having one in front of Potter was beyond humiliating, all the same. But instead of mocking him, Potter had actually _helped._ Draco couldn’t remember the last time someone had helped him calm down from an episode like that. His memory had gaps in it, but he was fairly certain no one ever had. Draco could normally control himself well enough not to break down like that unless he was alone. Until Azkaban, at least. But no one there had been inclined to comfort him. 

He remembered the genuine concern in Potter’s eyes, the hand extended to help him off the floor, the gentle, righting touch on his shoulder. It gave Draco a strange, choked feeling in his throat, like he was thirsty for something that wasn’t water. 

He stepped into the bathroom to rinse his stinging, swollen knuckles under the tap. Punching the walls repeatedly with his bare hands had been a particularly stupid move, but he’d been too angry to stop. Angry at himself, his father, his life, angry at nothing.

Laying waste to an entire room of Potter’s house had also been stupid, and Draco had been fully ready for a fight when Potter had caught him at it. But Potter had surprised him once again. Draco wasn’t sure what to label that conversation. It hadn’t been a fight, exactly, as hard as Draco had tried to turn it into one. He winced, remembering how many things he’d said he wished he could take back, how much ammunition he’d given Potter to use against him, if he wanted to. 

He sat on the edge of the tub to pick a chunk of glass out of his foot. _If my father could see me now_...Draco felt a shiver of self-disgust run down his spine, imagining what he would say. 

Potter was just a stupid Gryffindor, how was he so perceptive? How had Draco let him get the upper hand like that? He needed more sleep, Draco decided, but sleep was still elusive. 

Walking gingerly back into the bedroom, trying not to trail blood on the floor, Draco dug through the drawers of the dresser and found a couple pairs of musty socks to slip on his feet. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was face Potter—not only was he still mortified after everything that had happened today, but the pain he’d felt from simply grabbing Potter’s wrist too hard was still fresh in his mind. Potter could make him feel that again, for as long as he liked, and it would be terrifyingly easy. He wouldn’t even need to put any effort behind it, not like a Cruciatus Curse. The runes would do all the work for him. 

And Draco had given him ample reason to, he realized, looking around his decimated bedroom. But if Potter were mad enough to do that, he probably would have done it when he found him. Draco hoped, at least. 

And it was getting late, and Draco really didn’t want to miss Hermione’s call. So, with one last weary glance around the room, he headed downstairs. 

Potter was in the kitchen, his back turned, stirring something on the stove and humming to himself. There was an open bottle of brown Muggle liquor beside him on the counter. Great. To make matters worse, Potter was drinking again. He’d been calm the last time Draco had seen him intoxicated, hopefully that behavior remained consistent. 

Draco cleared his throat. 

Potter turned around and kicked a chair away from the table, giving Draco’s knuckles a glance and a wince. 

“You should see the other guy,” Draco quipped, taking a seat. 

Potter snorted softly. “If you put a dent in my wall, I swear…” 

“What if I did?” Draco asked, thinking of the small one he’d made next to the bed, the searing pain from earlier this afternoon still throbbing ominously in the back of his mind. 

Potter turned around from the stove again. “Did you?”

Draco hesitated. “Yes.” 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy.” Potter sounded more exasperated than angry, running a hand through his hair and taking another swig out of the bottle. 

He dumped whatever he was cooking—some kind of meat and vegetables—out of the frying pan and onto two plates, slamming one down in front of Draco. “Here. Stir-fry.” 

That was one word for it, Draco thought, poking a piece of burnt meat with a fork. 

“Drink?” Potter asked, raising the bottle. 

Draco shook his head, and took a careful bite. The chicken was over-cooked, and the vegetables were almost raw, but it really wasn’t too bad. 

Potter took a seat and began digging into his own plate. He looked up after a few bites. 

“How’s it taste?”

Draco shrugged. “You’re still feeding me. I’m not going out of my way to insult your cooking.”

“I know this is a wild idea, but you could compliment it.” 

“Don’t push your luck, Potter.” Despite his words, Draco felt the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. “On a scale of one to food, it’s definitely food, I’ll give it that. Can’t say the same for...what was it? Bull-lone-ya?” 

“Baloney,” Potter corrected, giving him a small half smile in return. 

“Right,” Draco said, changing his mind about the drink and swiping the bottle from Potter to steal a sip. He almost spat it out. He shoved the bottle back. “That is _revolting,_ Potter, how do you drink that?”

Potter shrugged. “Practice,” he said, taking another drink. 

Draco took another bite of food to get rid of the taste, chewed for a very, very long time, and managed to swallow it. “So…” he began cautiously, wondering if he should perhaps let the subject lie altogether, but needing to steady his nerves. “Are you angry, Potter? About earlier?” 

“No. Like I said, I’m not overly fond of anything in this house. Although you did probably muck up the resale value a bit.” 

“Well, you do still have a horde of cursed objects of dubious origins downstairs, guarded by an alcoholic house elf with no idea what year it is...” 

Potter chuckled. “Yeah, that ought to drive up the asking price.” 

“I’m just saying, in my defense, a dent in the wall is probably the least of your problems.” 

Potter shook his head. “Nah, I could never sell this place, not really. As much of a mess as it is, it’s all I have left of him. My godfather, I mean.” 

Like when he’d insulted the Weasleys, Draco found himself realizing belatedly that he’d stepped on Potter’s toes. Sirius Black was one of the only other people Potter had ever considered family, as far as Draco knew, and Draco had thrown a temper tantrum in his house. Draco shifted his weight in his chair, pushed the food around on his plate. Finally, he forced the words out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Potter. For putting a dent in the wall, and throwing things, I...” 

“It’s like you said, Malfoy. You have a right to be mad.” Potter sighed heavily, took another drink. “I get it, believe me.”

“That may be true, but…” Draco swallowed. Why did Potter have to be so understanding? It just made him feel guiltier. “I didn’t have a right to take my emotions out on your house, or break your belongings. I’m sure that’s not what you expected to come home to. And I’m... _grateful--_ ” his voice almost cracked on the word-- “That you’re letting me stay here, rather than sending me back to Azkaban.” He’d been too preoccupied with the memory of the pain he’d felt flowing through his veins earlier that afternoon to consider it, but if he kept up being such a nuisance, there was no guarantee Potter wouldn’t send him back. No guarantee besides Potter’s word, and Draco didn’t trust that for a second. 

“Fine. Apology accepted. But honestly, I’m not going to lose any sleep over some Black family knick-knacks.” Potter rose to get a glass of water from the tap, but when he turned back around, he stopped short. “Draco, you’re bleeding.” 

Draco looked down at the smear of blood on the kitchen tiles, and swore. “Sorry, Potter.” 

“Yeah, how dare you bleed on my floors, Malfoy, they were so clean before…” Potter said sarcastically, kneeling next to Draco’s foot. “You must’ve gotten glass in it,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his wand absentmindedly as he spoke. Then he froze, looking up at Draco. “I’m just going to cast a _Lumos_ charm, so I can take a look at it, Okay? Do you...do you mind if I take a look?” 

Potter was still looking up at him, one hand in his pocket, the other hand hovering over Draco’s socked foot. 

Draco sucked in a breath. A deep, instinctual part of him didn’t want Potter anywhere near him, because for the last five years, people anywhere near him had meant bad things, and wands anywhere near him had meant worse. 

“I can take care of it, Potter, you really don’t need to,” Draco said, after a lengthy pause. 

“I want to,” Potter answered immediately, and then flushed a little, looking as if he wished he could swallow the words. 

They stared at each other for a moment. The kitchen suddenly felt very small, and very quiet. Draco’s foot was throbbing. The concern in Potter’s eyes was doing that funny thing to his throat again. He swallowed, hard. 

“I want to,” Potter repeated, with more conviction this time. “But only if it’s okay with you.” 

Draco wet his lips, and nodded, feeling as if he were diving underwater. Something about Potter taking his sock off, touching an injury, felt very intimate. And giving someone else his trust felt alien, and wrong, like a shirt he hadn’t worn in a while, that had become too tight around the chest. Draco breathed shortly and deliberately, as if he were taking sips of water. 

Potter removed his sock slowly, and then pulled his wand out even slower, and whispered, _“Lumos.”_ He held the light up to the bottom of Draco’s foot. “I’m guessing this still doesn’t mean you want me healing you magically?” he asked. 

Draco considered. The marks from the chains around his wrists, ankles, and neck still burned, as well as the cuts from that arse-face Auror’s wand on his chest, and none of them were getting any better without magic. And his foot _was_ throbbing fiercely. But looking at the wand in Potter’s hand, Draco’s nerve left him. He didn’t care how bad his injuries were, he didn’t want his captor pointing a wand at him and casting spells.

“Maybe when hell freezes over,” Draco said, with a humor he did not feel.

“Didn’t think so,” Potter said with a sigh, and then bent his head to pick the sliver of glass out of Draco’s foot with careful fingernails by the light of his wand. 

Once he had it, he stood, and turned back to the kitchen sink to wet a rag, stowing his wand with a quiet “ _Nox._ ” He turned back and picked up the liquor bottle, took a drink, and then poured a little on the rag. He knelt again, and wiped Draco’s foot. 

Draco swore. “Are you sure you’re doing that right?” It stung more than he’d thought it would. 

“I’m cleaning it,” Potter retorted, holding gently onto Draco’s heel. “It hurts ‘cause the germs are dying.” 

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Potter, I wasn’t aware you had a medical degree. I won’t argue with you and…” Draco squinted to read the black label of the bottle in Potter’s hand. “Doctor Jack Daniel’s professional opinion. Is that what they use in Muggle hospitals?” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “Alcohol cleans wounds, so technically, yes.” 

“It certainly tastes like it.” 

Ignoring Draco, Potter dug around beneath his sink and pulled out a battered first aid kit, grabbed some gauze, and wrapped it clumsily onto Draco’s foot with what must have been at least a yard of tape. 

Potter finally sat back on his heels, apparently satisfied with his work. “There. Feel alright?” 

“More or less,” Draco said, wiggling his toes. “Thanks.” His voice came out husky. Potter’s concern still felt strange, and his technique could probably use some work, but Draco had to admit his foot _did_ feel better. 

Potter looked at Draco’s battered hands next, and Draco fisted them in his lap. “They’re fine, Potter.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop playing nurse.” As Potter made to sit back down again, they heard a shout from upstairs. 

“Harry? Oy, Harry!” 

Potter spun. “Ron?” He ran up to the living room, and Draco followed him. The orange head of a Weasley was coming to a spinning stop in the fireplace. 

“ _Ron,”_ Harry said, affectionately, dropping to a seat in front of the fire. 

Draco hovered behind him, wishing he could speak to his mother before Potter and his friend could start going on about...whatever the Weasley boy got up to when he wasn’t following Potter around, but not wanting to anger anyone present by asking. 

Ron tilted his head to the side, looking Potter up and down pointedly. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” 

Potter opened his mouth to speak, but Ron interrupted him. “Oh, you’re that famous wizard, the one with the scar, what’s his name, Parry Hotter?” 

“Very funny, Ron, do you want an autograph?”

“No, but now that I think about it, a call would have been nice, maybe once in the past _three years--”_

“I’m sorry--” Potter began, but Ron cut him off again. 

“It’s fine, it’s not like I was your best mate or anything--” 

Draco heard a muffled voice behind Ron’s head, and then Ron was yanked out of the fireplace and replaced by Hermione. Draco stepped a little closer. 

“--Honestly, Ron,” she was muttering, and then looked up. “Oh, hello, Draco, how are you? Feeling any better?” 

“Yes, Hermione, thank you.” Draco sat down beside Harry. “Is my mother alright?” 

“Yes, she’s doing well, sitting right here…” Hermione’s head disappeared, Draco could make out some muffled chatter, and then, finally, he could see his mother’s face in the flames. 

She blinked. “Draco? Oh thank Merlin, Draco, it’s really you…” 

“Hi, mum,” Draco said, leaning almost all the way into the fire, wishing he could jump through the flames and hug her. 

“Is everything...going well, over there? For you?” 

“Yes, Potter’s been perfectly decent, things are lovely--honestly,” he added, sensing his mother’s disbelief behind her polite smile. 

“How’s the House of Black? Not too gloomy, I hope?” 

‘Gloomy,’ had been their code word, during the war, when things were going very, very wrong. “No, mum, I promise. Not gloomy at all.” 

A more genuine smile spread onto his mother’s face, but her eyes were still tinged with worry. “Alright. Things are going wonderfully over here, too, Hermione is a treasure, and the Weasleys are all very lovely.” She turned to Potter. “And Harry, Ginny’s playing in a tournament at the moment, but she wanted me to tell you she missed you.” 

Potter nodded awkwardly. “Um, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

“Thank you very much for taking care of Draco, I hope you two are...getting along alright.” 

Potter gave her a crooked but reassuring smile. “Yes, we’re alright. He’s safe, Mrs. Malfoy, I promise.” 

Draco’s mother nodded, blinking rapidly. Draco knew she was trying to stop from crying. 

“It’s okay, mum,” he said, leaning closer, although he was close to tears himself. 

His mother fixed her hair self-consciously with another glance at Potter. “Well, Hermione has some important things to tell you, so I won’t keep you any longer, Harry, I hope you understand I just wanted to say hello…” She turned back to Draco. “I’ll talk to you more later, alright, sweetheart?” 

Draco nodded. “I love you, mum.” 

She nodded back, not seeming to trust herself with words, and then her face disappeared. 

Draco’s eyes were wet; he wiped them roughly on the sleeve of the jumper. Potter, thankfully, had the tact not to look at him. 

Hermione’s face appeared again. 

“My mother looks well,” Draco said. “...Cheers, Hermione.” He was too shaken up to be more eloquent than that. 

Hermione gave him a soft smile, seeming to understand. “Of course, Draco. Let me fill you both in on what I’ve picked up on the curse--it’s not much, unfortunately--and then you two can have some privacy, alright? Now, pay attention, Harry--are you drunk?” 

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Tipsy,” he admitted. 

“Well, I’ll trust Draco to remember it, then. It’s related to the curse they used to use on house elves, but it predates that, actually. It’s from back in the days when wizards used to enslave each other. Harry, touch Draco.” 

Potter blinked. “Excuse me?” 

Hermione huffed. “Oh, just on the arm or something, any physical contact will do.” 

Potter held up his left hand, the one nearest Draco. “Um, may I?” 

Draco rolled up the sleeve of the jumper and held out his arm, a little amused by how embarrassed Potter looked. “Go ahead.” 

Potter placed his fingers lightly on Draco’s forearm. 

“Now, look at your right hand,” Hermione continued. “On your palm. Do you see it? It should look like a tiny, white scar.” 

They both leaned down to stare at Potter’s hand. Sure enough, a small, white rune was etched into Potter’s skin. Potter removed his fingers from Draco’s arm, and the rune disappeared. 

“If you’d activated the curse at all, it would glow, apparently, but otherwise it’s not noticeable. It’s not supposed to trouble you, just Draco.” Hermione sounded disgusted. 

Draco glanced at Potter. Potter glanced back. Neither of them, it seemed, had noticed Potter’s hand that morning, they’d been too preoccupied. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Potter. “Harry, you _didn’t_ activate the curse, did you?” 

“It was an accident--” Potter began.

“My fault, really,” Draco said, cutting him off. 

Hermione looked between them. “Do I want to know what you two got up to?” 

Potter shook his head. “Draco hurt me, by accident, and the curse hurt him. It really _wasn’t_ his fault, it was mine, I should have thought--”

“I’m the one who hurt you--” Draco protested.

“In any event,” Hermione continued, cutting them both off, “From what I’ve gathered, it’s what links you. The curse marked you when you signed for Draco.” 

“Draco did some reading,” Potter said. “He gathered it was related to the curse on house elves, too, but he reckons the ministry tampered with it.” 

“It used to be related to blood magic,” Draco cut in. “But I think the Ministry has related it to something else, something else to bind people. I was thinking about the fact that I can’t leave Potter’s property, and I realized that back in the old days, wizarding families like mine, or the Blacks, would mark their territory with blood magic, to prevent trespassers. But now, I mean, Potter got the House of Black in a will from his godfather, so how does the curse know?” 

“Maybe it’s related to the dark art of contract law,” Potter said sarcastically. 

Hermione glared at him. “Be serious, Harry.” 

“Sorry, Hermione, just a joke.” 

“Well, Draco,” she continued, “I'll keep looking into it, and I’ll send you some books over, if you’d like to research it on your end, too.”

Draco nodded, feeling grateful to Hermione once again, and exceedingly sorry he’d ever called her a Mudblood. She was an angel. 

Knowledge was power, and reading and note-taking was far more comforting than Draco would ever have expected, back in school. 

Hermione was talking to Potter; Draco began listening again. She seemed to be giving Potter an earful about being more careful with the curse.

“--Seriously hurt him, Harry, are you listening?” 

“Yes, I know, I’m so, so sorry, it was...a stressful situation--”

“You have a tremendous responsibility, you need to be cautious--”

“Really, Hermione, it was my fault,” Draco threw in, not wanting to drive a wedge between them, and a little uncomfortable at having the subject discussed. Thankfully, Potter still hadn’t brought up what had been happening when the curse had struck Draco, whether through absentmindedness or tact, Draco didn’t know, but he didn’t want his mother hearing about it. She’d just worry, and she looked like she was doing enough of that already. 

“You’re very kind, Draco, but Harry can be a bit thick at times,” Hermione said. “Anyway, I suspect you want to talk to your mother, so I’ll leave you to it--love you, Harry, please call me again soon, alright?” 

Potter nodded. “I will, Hermione. It’s good to see you again.”

Hermione gave Potter a soft, sad smile, and then her head disappeared again, replaced by Ron’s freckled face. “Yeah, you wanker, call us, alright? Or better yet, drag your arse over here in person.” 

“You going to punch me, or give me a hug?” Potter asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Ron replied, “Probably both.” 

Potter promised that he would visit, and then the both of them disappeared. 

“I’ll, um, leave you to it,” Potter said, standing up and giving Draco an awkward, two-finger salute. He left, taking the stairs down to the kitchen to apparently give Draco some privacy. 

Draco watched Potter as he left, feeling strangely more fond of him in that moment than he had since he’d arrived at the House of Black. He looked down at his foot, wrapped in messy gauze and medical tape. _I want to._ The words echoed in his head without his permission, and he felt a small smile widening across his face. When he looked back up at the fireplace, his mother was beaming at him from the flames again. 

“So,” she said, “Tell me everything, Draco.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a foot fetish, I swear.  
> In all seriousness, y'all have sat through a lot of fighting in this fic, so here's some of that hurt/comfort shit we all love.  
> Draco's finally starting to trust Harry, just a tiny bit. And he finally got to talk to his mom!  
> There will be more Ron soon, I promise, I love that little ginger bean.  
> Hope you enjoyed, as always, please leave your thoughts. <3


	13. In which Harry learns some more about Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry for the wait guys. Next one should be up sooner. It’s been a rough week.  
> Hope you’re all well and staying safe <3  
> I changed the rating on this to mature just to be on the safe side, this chapter gets a little raunchy (and I think I might end up writing some sexy scenes later on, no promises though. I’m bad at it and need practice.)  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Harry woke slowly, his head pounding. It took him a moment to recall where he was. He’d drank himself asleep at his kitchen table last night, apparently. 

Leaning back in his chair, he started the coffee maker with a wave of his wand, and then cradled his head in his hands. He’d drank more than usual--a lot more than usual, he realized, glancing at the nearly empty bottle on the table. 

Slowly, he remembered why, as last night faded back into focus.

He remembered kneeling to bandage Malfoy’s foot, telling him he wanted to, trying to kindle that fragile spark of trust in Malfoy’s eyes. What on god’s green earth had possessed him to be so...intimate with Draco Malfoy? Draco Malfoy, who had bullied him for years, insulted his friends, joined Voldemort...But Draco Malfoy wasn’t just that, anymore. That name brought different things to the front of Harry’s mind now--shaky fingers and sweet coffee, sad, tired blue eyes, stupid jokes and smirking half smiles. Malfoy wasn’t just a vague idea Harry could hate from afar, he’d gotten too close for comfort. Malfoy was a hurting, angry man, standing in a pile of broken glass, bloody knuckles raised. He was a scared boy, who had been through too much, who could never live up to his father’s expectations. He was a brave but suffering person, curled up on Harry’s floor, tormented by his own head. And most of all, he was Harry’s responsibility, like it or not. Harry looked down at his right palm, remembering the rune that had appeared there last night. This connection went two ways, after all. And although Harry would have denied it, there was a small, protective fire growing in his heart. 

The coffee maker burbled to a stop, and Harry jumped. He rose, getting two mugs down, and pouring a couple heaping spoons of the sugar he’d bought yesterday into one of them, with a fond half smile still lingering on his face. 

When Harry reached the top of the stairs, he stopped short, staring around his living room. The room was...clean. The trash, the bottles, all gone, the clothes, piled in a hamper, the books, stacked, the dust and cobwebs, cleared…

Malfoy didn’t even have a wand...had he done all this himself? Or had Kreacher gotten plastered again and gone on some kind of mad cleaning spree while Harry was asleep? 

Malfoy was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, a book in his hands. “Finally awake, are you?” He looked up at Harry. “I know, I know,” he drawled, “You do, in fact, have a floor. Try not to die of a heart attack, now that you can finally see it.” 

Harry shook his head. “Malfoy...you didn’t need to do all this, you know…” 

“Oh, sorry, were you planning on doing it some time in the next few years?” 

He had a point, there, it had been a long time since Harry had cleaned, and it wasn’t like he’d had the intention of doing so anytime soon. But still…

“Thank you for fixing my heater, cause I didn’t have the foggiest notion of what I was doing,” Harry admitted, “But you really didn’t have to clean up after me. It’s my fault I let it get this way.” 

“I have to live here too, and I was tired of looking at it. And besides,” Malfoy closed the book and set it beside him. “I needed the distraction.” 

“I would have guessed I’d have to use an Imperius Curse to get Draco Malfoy to act as a maid.” Harry said, walking over to set their mugs on the table. 

Malfoy glared up at him from the floor. “If you start referring to me as your _maid,_ Potter, I swear…”

“What are you gonna do about it, Malfoy the Maid?” Harry said, a half smile tugging at his lips. He’d started to enjoy bantering with Malfoy, over the past couple of days. 

Malfoy opened his mouth and then shut it again, looking down at his lap. “I suppose you’re right, I’m in no position to be making threats.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that…” Harry had forgotten, momentarily, that Malfoy couldn’t actually _do_ anything to him, he’d been too caught up in their conversation. “You could always toss more of my stuff at the walls, you know.” 

Malfoy smirked, picking up the mug Harry had brought him and taking a sip. “You better watch yourself, Potter, or you’ll be drinking your coffee out of a bowl.” 

Harry chuckled and dropped to the floor to sit beside Malfoy. “So, how’s your mother? Did you get to talk for a while?” 

Malfoy nodded. “I talked to her for a long time, until we fell asleep. If things were going...poorly, I think she would have told me, or I would at least have been able to tell. I think she’s safe.” He stared down into his coffee. “Hermione is...I’m in her debt. And the Weasleys seem decent. And forgiving. My mother does have a knack for wrapping people around her finger.” 

“She seemed pretty happy, from what I saw,” Harry said, hoping the thought would be some comfort.

Malfoy’s features were still pinched with worry. “She’s a good actress.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, a little concerned.

“Well, she had to be, we all did, working for Voldemort.” He sighed quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the dark look he was wearing. “But the fact is, I’m not sure I ever saw my mother happy, not really. Not all the way through.” 

Harry wrapped his fingers around his mug, not sure what to say. He wondered, not for the first time, what Malfoy’s motives had been, joining Voldemort, how much a choice he’d really had. How much of a choice Narcissa had had, for that matter.

“You hungry?” Harry asked eventually, not wanting to dig up the past.

Malfoy shrugged. “Depends what you’re making.” 

“I was thinking pancakes.” 

Malfoy took a sip of coffee, his expression carefully placid once again. “Can I make them?” 

“You just cleaned my whole living room, you don’t need to cook for me, too.” 

“I want to.” 

They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, both of them clearly thinking of last night. 

Malfoy huffed. “No offense, Potter, but you’re not exactly gifted in the culinary arts.” 

“Fine, fine, you can make the pancakes,” Harry agreed, glad of the subject change. 

Malfoy was already standing. “They’re going to be the best pancakes you’ve ever had, believe me.” 

“Is that so?” 

“I don’t do anything I can’t do well.” Malfoy gave him a confident, smirking smile, looking, for a moment, like his old self. 

Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, a second mug of coffee in his hands, watching Malfoy as he fussed with the stove, muttering something about ‘Muggle contraptions’ intermingled with a number of colorful swears Harry had never heard. 

Malfoy wet his fingers in the sink and flicked water at both the pans he had heated, and then smiled as it sparked and crackled in the oil. “Perfect.” 

He started pouring pancakes, his face a mask of concentration, his brow furrowed and his teeth sunk into his pink bottom lip. 

Harry’s gaze was distracted by the bruises on Malfoy’s face. Most of them were beginning to fade slightly, turning more of a tired yellow than an angry purple. But the ones on his neck, wrists, and ankles, were still dark, the skin still raw. 

Harry’s eyes fell on Malfoy’s bandaged foot. “How’s it feel?” he asked. Malfoy was only barely limping. 

Malfoy turned back from the stove, twirling the spatula in his hand. “Better, I guess.”

“Are those the marks from the chains you came here in?” Harry asked, gesturing at the bruises that hadn’t healed. 

Malfoy looked down at his arms. “Yes,” he answered quietly, sounding reluctant. 

“They don’t look like they’ve gotten much better.”

Malfoy leaned back against the counter, ran a shaky finger over the abrasions. “They haven’t. Those chains were...not ordinary. I don’t think they’ll heal at all, on their own.” He looked up at Harry. “And I swear, Potter, please don’t start with your nurse routine again.” 

“Fine, I’ll stop nagging about it. It would just be...so easy to heal with magic.” They looked like they hurt, and Malfoy was in a bad enough way already. 

“Easy.” Malfoy smiled mirthlessly. “Not for me.” 

“You don’t trust me?” Harry asked, keeping his voice forcedly casual and trying his best not to be offended. “I could get Hermione to do it, probably--”

“It’s not you,” Malfoy said, cutting him off. 

“What is it then?” Harry wasn’t trying to ask intrusive questions, but they’d been dancing around this issue for a while now. 

Malfoy gripped the spatula tighter, ignoring the batter as it popped and bubbled behind him. He was silent for so long, Harry had started to accept he wasn’t getting an answer. But then, Malfoy spoke. 

“There was this one Auror. Corbyn, that’s his name. Bellatrix, my aunt, tortured and killed someone of his--his wife, was my guess.” Malfoy was staring at the tiles beneath his feet, his features expressionless. “Anyway, he hated me. And he loved getting assigned to me. I don’t think he had many friends. Lots of time to kill.” Malfoy’s chuckle was bitter. “One day, he spent hours, just breaking my fingers, and healing them. Over and over again. One by one.” 

Malfoy swallowed, and finally looked in Harry's direction, not meeting his eyes. His voice dropped even lower. “So it’s not you. But having a wand pointed at me makes me nervous, no matter what the intention is. Even if it’s healing.” He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper, so quiet Harry had to strain to make the words out. “They only ever healed me so they could hurt me again.” 

Harry felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “That’s awful,” Harry choked out. “How was he allowed to do that?” 

Malfoy turned back around to flip the pancakes. The pan looked heavy in his battered wrist. “He wasn’t, technically. The Aurors are allowed to use force, but only for self-defense, and ‘whatever is necessary to contain the prisoners.’” Malfoy shook the other pan, glancing back at Harry. “A definition that is, as you might have guessed, purposefully vague. And the supervision was...well, let’s just say, insufficient.” 

Malfoy had descended back into his usual, comfortable cynicism, but Harry was still reeling. He could tell Malfoy had been abused, but what he was hearing now was...beyond. 

“How could they let such disgusting people become Aurors?” Harry wondered aloud. 

Malfoy shrugged, taking a sip of coffee. “They’d all lost people. They all hated being assigned to guarding Death Eaters. And like I said, they had very little supervision. And no judgment, from anyone. Nobody cared what happened to the ‘bad guys,’ not enough to intervene, anyway. Or call them out for it.” Malfoy sighed. “In a way, I guess I can understand it.” 

“I can’t,” Harry said, shaking his head. “How can they pretend to be any better than Death Eaters, if that’s how they act when the tables are turned?” 

“There’s a monster inside everyone, Potter. And we’re all just trying to get power over each other. Didn’t I tell you that?” 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, coffee cooling, forgotten on the table. He didn’t want to tell Malfoy he was wrong--Malfoy was talking about his experiences, and he had a right to feel any which way about them. Harry didn’t want to attack his perspective, but it was still a dismal one, and one Harry disagreed with. 

“Everyone gets...bad impulses, sometimes,” Harry said finally. “But that doesn’t mean you need to act on them.” 

Malfoy chuckled softly, picking up the pot to pour himself more coffee. “Some people, like you, they learn what being on the wrong side of power feels like, and it makes them kind. But other people…” he poured the rest into Harry’s mug. Harry looked up, caught his eyes.

Malfoy’s expression was cold. “Other people, they live on the wrong side of power for too long, and it turns them mean. They start looking for ways to push other people down. Cause they never want to be under someone else’s foot again.” 

“Is that your excuse then?” Harry asked, guessing Malfoy was talking about himself.

“No, I don’t give myself an excuse. My story’s a little different.” Malfoy turned back to the stove, flipping the pancakes out onto plates. 

“What is your story, then?” 

“You know it better than most. I was a spoiled brat, who thought he was better than everyone else.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes, searching Malfoy’s face but finding nothing. “There’s more to it than that.” 

Malfoy turned the burners off with a snap and then turned around, arms folded. “Why don’t you tell me, then? Since you know me so well.”

Harry considered. There was a dangerous look in Malfoy’s eyes, and Harry could sense that whatever he said, he was walking into a fight. “I don’t know you,” he said finally. “Not as well as I’d like to.” 

Malfoy regarded him for a long moment, before picking up the plates and setting them on the table. “What do you want to know, then?” he asked, sitting down. “Ask me anything, I’ll be honest.”

Harry regarded him, took a sip of coffee. “What’s your favorite color?” 

Malfoy smirked. “Green.” 

“Typical Slytherin,” Harry said. 

“What’s yours, then?” 

Harry had never put much thought into it. Looking back into Draco’s eyes, he picked one. “Blue.” 

Malfoy snorted. “Maybe you should have been a Ravenclaw.” 

“That’s a laugh. I wouldn’t even be able to get in the common room.” 

They both chuckled about that idea, and then Harry came up with another question. 

“What’s your favorite memory?” 

Malfoy hesitated, for just a second. “Getting sorted at Hogwarts,” he answered. 

“I mean, really. Your very favorite.” 

Malfoy considered. Harry could tell he already knew, he was just deciding whether or not he wanted Harry to know it, too. Eventually, he spoke. 

“It’s sort of boring, really. One time, over Christmas break in fourth year, when I had woken up in the middle of the night. My mum was up, too, and she made me some tea, and we just sat there in the kitchen talking, until the sun rose. It’s the last time I remember feeling…” He looked away, cleared his throat. “Feeling like a kid, I guess.” He picked up his fork, dug into his pancakes. “Told you it was boring.” 

“It sounds nice,” Harry said. 

“How’s the pancakes? Best you’ve ever had?” 

Harry took a bite. They were amazing, perfectly fluffy and golden brown. “Better than mine, I have to admit.” 

“Told you,” Malfoy said, smiling. It was nice, seeing him looking something other than ashamed of himself. 

They ate in silence for a little while, and then Malfoy looked up at him. “Who was your first time?” he asked casually. 

Harry blinked, a little blindsided by the question. “Um, Ginny.” 

“How was it?” Malfoy raised a suggestive eyebrow. 

“She was great.” Harry smiled softly at the memory. “I expected I’d be...awkward, but honestly...we knew each other so well, it felt almost like a...like a conversation.” Most of the sex he’d had—and definitely the best—had been with Ginny. He’d hooked up with a few Muggles over the years since then, too paranoid to sleep with a witch or wizard he didn’t know well. He didn't want them spreading rumors about him, and besides, he didn’t want to use his fame just to get laid. 

Malfoy’s smirking smile had turned a little sad. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, as his next question. 

Malfoy ran a finger around the rim of his mug. “How much I miss that.”

“What, sex?” 

“Intimacy.” Malfoy was staring at the table. “Told you I’d be honest,” he added quietly.

Harry couldn’t imagine what it would feel like, spending so many years only being touched when people wanted to hurt you, or drag you around. “Do you want a hug?” he offered, before he could stop himself.

Malfoy glared at him. “Hilarious, Potter.” 

“I wasn’t kidding, I just…” Harry trailed off, embarrassed. 

Malfoy tilted his head to the side, regarding Harry as if still trying to tell if he were serious. “I’ll pass on the hug, thanks,” he said. “But if you wanted to blow me, I miss that, too.” 

“Do you miss getting punched yet? Cause I’m more than willing to oblige.” 

“It’s my turn to ask you a question, isn’t it?” Malfoy said, sawing off another bite of pancake with the side of his fork. “If there were a room with a hundred dicks on the wall, how many would you choke on?” 

Harry almost spat out his coffee. “Um, none,” he sputtered. Knowing Malfoy, there was a trick coming, but he had no idea what it could be. 

“Really?” Malfoy took a sip of his coffee, eyebrows raised. “You must be damn good at sucking dick.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I like to think I’m decent at it.” 

Malfoy blinked at him, his cheeks taking on a slight tinge of pink. “Well. Who knew. The Boy Who Lived goes both ways.” 

Harry took the opportunity to wink at him, and Malfoy looked away, blushing harder. It was fun, making Malfoy flustered for once. He was a hard man to catch off guard. 

“What about you?” Harry asked.

Malfoy swallowed. “I’m not gay, Potter.” He met Harry’s eyes again after a moment, a cocky grin on his face. “Although I’m sure you wish.” 

Harry rolled his eyes again. “I’m way out of your league, Malfoy.” 

“Keep telling yourself that.” 

Harry opened his mouth to retort when the doorbell rang from upstairs. They looked at each other. 

“Who could that be?” Harry said. He didn’t think Ron or Hermione would come over without calling or sending an owl, and neither of them usually rang the doorbell. They still remembered when the painting would scream every time.

Malfoy shrugged in response. 

The doorbell rang again. 

“You going to answer it?” Malfoy asked. 

Harry rose and climbed the stairs, a foreboding feeling settling in his throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve noticed in a lot of Drarry fics, Draco is the one who’s already messed around with guys, etc, and I thought I’d switch it up for once, and have Harry be the one who’s more confident in his sexuality. Also I feel like Draco would be liable to have a lot of internalized homophobia, after his upbringing.  
> Anyway, as always, please leave a comment, they make my day.  
> P.S. If anyone gets the Potter Puppet Pals reference in the chapter title, you’re officially my favorite person <3


	14. In which Draco gets a visit from an enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was mostly fluff, this one is mostly angst (the universe has to remain in balance, after all)

Draco was stepping into the entryway as Potter opened the door, but when Draco saw who was behind it, he stopped short. Corbyn. And Reynolds, that ginger lard who loved kicking him. Reynolds was big, but Corbyn was even taller. They made an intimidating pair, blocking out what little grey, noonday light managed to filter through the clouds. 

“Can I help you?” Potter asked frostily, looking the two Aurors up and down.

“Rehabilitation Welfare Check,” Corbyn said, his voice deep and cold as an abandoned well. Just that voice made Draco’s stomach coil. Corbyn looked over Potter’s shoulder at Draco, running his thick fingers over his bald scalp with a smile that made Draco feel sick. “Miss me?” he said quietly. 

Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. 

“Your concern is heartwarming,” Potter replied sarcastically, stepping between them. Corbyn was still a head taller, but Draco felt a little comforted by the action. It reminded him, at least, that Corbyn couldn’t get at him anymore. 

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Reynolds cut in, “Just routine, checking in after the first three days.” 

“Everything’s going swimmingly,” Potter said, his voice still coldly sarcastic. 

“The runic bond activated yesterday, of its own accord, meaning the prisoner stepped out of line." Reynolds gave Draco a suspicious glare. "We just wanted to make sure everything was alright.” 

Draco fixed his eyes on the floor, his thoughts racing. What if Potter took this opportunity to send him back? 

But Potter just replied, “Everything’s handled, thanks,” beginning to close the door. 

“Wait, wait,” said Reynolds, holding up a hand. “We just wanted to ask you a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind?” 

“And if I do?” Potter’s tone had turned downright icy.

“I’m afraid they’re necessary,” Corbyn said, holding up a parchment self-importantly. “How would you rate the prisoner’s behavior, on a scale of Outstanding to Dreadful? This will go on his permanent record, and be considered upon his opportunity for parole.” 

Draco held his breath. He hadn’t thought that his behavior might be considered, and that Potter would be the one judging it. He was pretty sure he’d earned a Troll grade for ‘behavior,’ especially after the temper tantrum he’d thrown yesterday. And besides that, all he’d done so far was do his damndest to piss Potter off. And pissing people off was, unfortunately, one of his best skills. 

But Potter just shrugged. “Outstanding, I guess?” 

“But he activated the contract yesterday,” Corbyn said, obviously displeased. 

“It was an accident. Next question?” 

Corbyn shot Draco a look; Draco held his eyes this time. “Nothing’s ever an accident, with this one.” 

“He’s in my custody, I’ll be the judge of that.” Potter was sounding more irritated with every second that passed. 

“Tell me,” Corbyn asked, leaning closer, “Why did you pick him?” 

Potter folded his arms. “Is this one of the ‘routine’ questions?” 

“Just curious,” Corbyn said. “The Chosen One himself--you’re a hard man to track down, you know. So now that you’ve finally selected someone from the program, I’m wondering...why him?” Corbyn’s voice was carefully casual, his eyes sharp. Draco felt the pancakes and coffee turning over in his stomach.

Potter stared back at Corbyn for a long moment before answering. “We were classmates. Can we move this along?”

“Of course.” Corbyn offered Potter an officious smile from thin lips. “How would you rate your level of satisfaction with the program so far?” 

Draco couldn’t see Potter’s face, standing behind him, but he heard him scoff, and could guess what his expression was like. 

“Abysmal,” Potter said. “And no, I don’t wish to elaborate.” 

Corbyn was opening his mouth, but Reynolds interrupted him, looking uncomfortable. “Very well, sir. You may answer the questions as fully as you’d like. Finally, would you say this program has improved 6583-9K’s character in any way? Our primary wish is to reform.” 

“I’ll let him answer that,” Potter replied, turning around to look at Draco. 

Draco’s throat felt like it was closing; sucking in the cold air was becoming painful. He could feel his pulse racing in his neck. What was he supposed to say to that? 

“Um…” He swallowed thickly. Pushing words out through his teeth felt like threading a needle. “I certainly...hope I’ve improved.” He didn’t know what else to say, all he wanted was to shut the door and curl up in a ball. He could usually hold his own with the Aurors, even when they hurt him, but Corbyn...Corbyn could pin him to the wall with just his eyes.

Corbyn was looking at Draco again. His lips twisted into a smile, looking at the bruises and raw skin around Draco’s neck. “Did you take his shirt off yet?” Corbyn asked. 

“Excuse me?” Potter said, but Draco barely heard him. Corbyn’s gaze was still locked with Draco’s, his eyes dark like the ocean at night. They both knew Potter hadn’t healed him, and they both knew the marks Corbyn had carved into his chest as a going-away present were still there, burning beneath Draco’s sweater. 

Corbyn finally looked back at Potter, casual once again. “I left the Malfoy boy a little gift, when we parted ways.” He smirked. “It’s worth seeing, I promise.” With that, he turned away, walking down the front steps and Disapparating with a sharp crack.

Reynolds thanked Potter awkwardly for his time and then followed his coworker, disappearing into the cold, misty air. 

Potter shut the door and turned round. Draco could feel Potter staring at him; he fixed his gaze on the floor again. Looking at his hands, he realized he was shaking, harder than normal. His whole body was. He wrapped his arms around himself. The cuts on his chest stung beneath them. 

Potter took a step towards him, and Draco stepped away, back hitting the wall. A wave of shame washed over him. As much as he despised Corbyn, the man always succeeded in making Draco feel lower than dirt. All the things he’d done, all the screaming he’d sat through, all the murders he’d watched--he could see them reflected in Corbyn’s black eyes. 

Draco had lied to Potter earlier, about Corbyn’s wife--he hadn’t just guessed, he’d known. Draco remembered her. She’d been a muggle sympathizer, blonde, with big brown eyes, wearing a purple Muggle-made jumper with cats on it beneath her robes. Bellatrix had hurt her, just for the fun of it, and Draco could still remember standing in the living room, staring at himself in the mirror, as the screams echoed off the walls of his childhood home. He remembered Corbyn’s wife sobbing, crying, begging for help. And he remembered wishing he could do something, anything, but simply standing there, unwilling to watch but unable to stop it. 

And to think, he’d been proud when the Dark Lord had chosen him, given him a mission. It had seemed like an honor at the time. But in the months he’d spent in Voldemort’s service, he’d quickly realized it wasn’t an honor at all. Voldemort looked for weakness and hate in other people, for a willingness to follow orders and a hunger to subjugate others. And at sixteen, Draco had all those things. He’d been a stupid, insecure, bullying boy, with no idea what real suffering looked like. He’d learned soon enough. And by then, it had been too late. 

Draco could feel tears prickling hot against the backs of his eyes, and shoved his hands into them. He didn’t deserve to cry. It was too late for guilt now. He could hate himself as much as he liked, it wouldn’t change the past. It wouldn’t bring Corbyn’s wife back from the dead, or anyone else. 

He looked up, dropping his hands from his face. Potter was staring at him intently. 

“What’s wrong? That Auror--he did something to you, didn’t he?” 

Draco shook his head. “It’s not that.” 

“What is it, then?”

Draco just kept shaking his head, unable to speak. He couldn’t say it out loud, the guilt that hung around his neck like an albatross. He could usually push it away, distance himself from it, but at the moment he felt its full weight, heavy as a stone in the pit of his stomach. 

There was nothing, really, to say. And telling Potter about the things he’d done, about what a slime he really was, would just make Potter hate him more. 

Potter had been kind to him, so far. He seemed to think Draco didn’t deserve all the things that had been done to him, and Draco felt a cowardly impulse to keep it that way.

“What did he mean?” Potter asked finally. “About a ‘gift’?”

Draco forced himself to meet Potter’s eyes again. “Only one way to find out,” he said, wondering if Potter would rise to the challenge. From what Draco had seen thus far, Potter didn’t have it in him to rip Draco’s clothes off of him, no matter how curious he was. 

Potter shook his head, an absentminded, worried hand in his hair. “I’m not going to...remove your clothing without your consent.” 

“Then die wondering.” And with that, Draco climbed the stairs to his room, picked his way through the broken glass, and curled up on his bed. Unable to resist the sobs anymore, he let them wrack him, like waves on the shore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Draco is feeling the guilt.   
> Please leave a comment if you liked, and/or tell me what your personal take on Draco's character is. I think he's really interesting. Then again, I'm a sucker for the conflicted, morally gray characters. I love what the HP series did with Harry & Draco and Dumbledore & Snape in books five, six, and seven. The way Harry looks at his mentors, peers, and enemies shifts so much in the last three books. Rowling's so good at creating character foils and subtle theming, ugh. I want to write like that someday. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much to everyone for reading my work <3 more coming soon


	15. In which Harry has a drunk conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments on the last one! It was fun seeing everyone's take on my Draco and how he compares to canon Draco and other people's interpretations.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one!

It was late, when Malfoy finally came downstairs. Harry was in his usual spot on the floor, the familiar weight of a bottle in his hands. 

He looked up. “You gonna tell me what that was all about, back there?” 

“No,” Malfoy answered flatly. “You gonna give me a drink?”

Harry handed the bottle over. Malfoy looked like he needed it. It was Jack, and Malfoy’s reaction to that last time had been nothing but disgust, but at the moment, Malfoy was chugging it. 

Malfoy finally pulled the bottle away from his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, face twisted into a grimace. Then he raised it again. 

“Slow down,” Harry said, standing and reaching for the whiskey. They stood there for a moment, both of them holding onto the bottle. Malfoy finally relinquished his grip. 

Harry huffed a short sigh. “If you wanna get drunk, I’m not going to stop you, but at least drink something you actually like.” Harry started downstairs towards the kitchen, and Malfoy followed him. He dropped into a kitchen chair, looking exhausted. Harry pulled a bottle of potion from above his fridge and popped the cork open against the counter. 

“Here,” he said, holding it out. Maybe if he got Malfoy drunk enough, he could get some damn answers. 

Malfoy drank the potion just as fast, drinking almost half the bottle before Harry snatched it back from him, getting worried. Harry sat down at the kitchen table across from him. 

“Okay, Malfoy. What happened today? Who was that guy?”

“That was Corbyn,” Malfoy said tiredly, dropping his head into his hands.

“The one who...the one who broke your fingers?” Harry said.

Malfoy’s eyes were far away. “He did a lot more than that.”

“I’m sorry. It must have shaken you up, seeing him again.” 

“Yeah,” Malfoy muttered, extending a hand. “Can I _please_ have that back?” 

Harry took a drink, and passed the bottle back to Malfoy. “Drink it...slower,” he finished with a sigh, as Malfoy was chugging it again. He was beginning to suspect there was a little more to it, something he was missing. 

They sat in silence for a long while, just drinking, before Malfoy finally slammed the bottle down on the table. “You ever used a Cruciatus Curse, Harry?” 

“Yes,” Harry admitted. 

“Successfully?”

“Yes,” Harry said again, his voice quiet. 

Malfoy gave him a small, grim smile. “Then you know how to make it work. It takes a lot of hate, to want to see a person suffer that much. Not just anger--hate. Anger is simpler, it’s a flash in the pan, but hatred...hatred is more complex. It has a flavor to it, ages like a fine wine.” 

Malfoy took another sip of the potion. He looked like he was feeling its effects already. He smirked, reminiscing, in a bitter facsimile of a fond smile. “Corbyn used _Crucio_ on me, more than once. Not many Aurors willing to use unforgivable curses--they get paranoid, superstitious. But Corbyn...Corbyn loved it.” Malfoy spread his shaky fingers out on the table, observing them as they twitched like they belonged to someone else. “And when he used it on me, I could _feel_ it. Like I never had before. I could feel exactly how much he hated me, exactly how much pain he was in. And it was…” Malfoy shook his head. “It was the thing that finally broke me, I guess.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, choked up. He was unsettled by the realization that he knew how Corbyn had felt in that moment, recognized it. All those years of war, all the deaths, all the losses, that desire to take it out on someone else, to make them feel even a fraction of the pain they’d caused. But he’d learned, quickly, that revenge didn’t get rid of it, only made it worse. He wasn’t sure there was a way to get rid of that bitter, poisonous feeling. He’d hoped time would make it fade, but it was still there, sleeping, in his guts. 

When he looked up, Malfoy was regarding him carefully. “You know the feeling, don’t you? You just don’t hate me enough.” He looked away. “If you knew me better, you would.” 

“Would I?” Harry asked. He was pretty sure that wasn’t true--what Harry had hated most about the Death Eaters was the way they seemed to _enjoy_ what they did--revel in the suffering they caused. Malfoy certainly seemed to enjoy bullying people, but as a Death Eater, he’d always just looked scared. 

Malfoy didn’t answer him, he just kept drinking. 

Harry finally broke the silence himself. “Corbyn was...he was misguided. And I doubt he’d ever be able to forgive you, for being associated with the Death Eaters, for being a part of your family--but he shouldn’t have let his hatred make him abuse his power like that. Make him abuse a _person_ like that. That's just--just disgusting. You can feel a feeling and not act on it. It takes self-control, but you can.” 

“You never seemed to have much of that yourself,” Malfoy said. 

It was a fair point. “I learned it. The hard way.” Harry took a sip of whiskey, enjoying the way it burned, the way it warmed him. His hands felt cold on the bottle. “And I’m not a kid, anymore.” He stared at Malfoy until Malfoy met his eyes. “Whatever you told me, Malfoy, I wouldn’t hurt you for it. That much I swear.” 

“But you--” Malfoy’s voice broke. “You don’t just...not hurt me...you…” He stumbled over his words, scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re _kind._ You tell me I don’t deserve it, all of this…” There were tears welling up in his eyes. “I just couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the way you’d look at me, if you saw me...saw me the way I see myself.” 

Harry swallowed, hard, unable to speak. He’d never seen Malfoy show this much raw emotion before. The closest he’d ever seen was in the bathroom in sixth year, but this time, he knew Harry could see him, and it was _Harry_ he was talking about. “Draco…” 

“Don’t,” Draco mumbled. “Don’t be nice, I don’t think I could bear it.” 

Harry reached out, took Draco’s hand where it was sitting on the table, clasped the shaky fingers in his. Draco started to pull away, but he stopped. Eventually, he wrapped his fingers around Harry’s hand, his eyes fixed on the floor. 

One of Draco’s tears fell; he wiped his face with his other hand, still not letting go of Harry’s. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said softly. “I really am. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“That doesn’t do any good, you know,” Harry said softly. “Being sorry.” 

Malfoy swallowed. “I know that.” 

“Feeling guilty won’t help anyone. It won’t help people like Corbyn, won’t bring anyone back to life, won’t erase any of the pain. It won’t even make you feel better, wishing you could take it back, wishing you’d done something differently. So if you want my advice…” Harry squeezed Draco’s fingers. “Try to move on. It won’t happen overnight, but try. You survived. There were a lot that didn’t. You have a chance, a chance to become someone else. Someone you like better.” 

Malfoy shook his head in response, pulling his hand away.

Harry wrapped his fingers back around the cold glass of the bottle. “It won’t help anyone, hating yourself. I know it becomes comfortable, after a while, but it doesn’t help.” 

“I can’t stop,” Malfoy said.

Harry sighed. “It’s still too early, maybe, but give yourself time.” 

“It’s not too early, it’s too late.” 

“You’re alive. As long as you’re alive, it’s never too late.” 

Malfoy looked up at him, finally. “You said it yourself,” he said, his voice hollow. “You can’t change the past.” 

“No. So maybe focus on the future.” 

“That’s very sweet, Potter,” Malfoy said, in a tired attempt at his mocking drawl. “Did you read that in a Muggle birthday card?” 

Harry picked at the label on the bottle in his hands. “No. It’s just something I’ve been trying to teach myself.” 

Malfoy opened his mouth and Harry prepared himself for another smart remark, but Malfoy hesitated.

“Thanks,” he said softly, reaching for the almost-empty potion bottle again. 

Harry leaned forward and rested his fingers on it gently. “Maybe you should get some sleep, instead.” 

Malfoy pulled the bottle away, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna go back to my room,” he said, his words slurred slightly. 

Harry bit his lip, wondering if it was the loneliness that bothered him. He knew well enough it wasn’t fun, being alone with your thoughts. “You could have the couch, if you like.” 

Malfoy considered. Finally, he set the bottle down. “Okay.” 

As they headed back up the stairs, Malfoy tripped, near the top. Harry reached out to steady him, and Draco leaned back against his arms, chuckling slightly. 

“Drunker than I thought,” he mumbled. 

Harry stepped up to wrap an arm around him, helping him up the remaining steps. Malfoy really _must_ be drunk, if he was letting Harry do this. They reached the top, and Harry half-walked, half-hauled Malfoy to the couch, and let him drop. He crammed a pillow beneath Malfoy’s blond head. 

Malfoy smiled up at him. “Thanks,” he said sleepily. 

Harry stared down at him, wondering if Malfoy were drunk enough to let him see what Corbyn had put on his chest “Can I...can I see?” he asked, reaching towards the hem of Malfoy’s sweater. 

“Getting frisky already, Potter?” Malfoy smirked. “Thought you were out of my league.” 

“I’m not, I--I’m just curious. Did he hurt you?” 

Malfoy’s smirk turned cynical. “You know he did. And you know I won’t let you point your wand at me, so why are we having this conversation?" He hiccuped, rolled over on the couch. "Suspect you’ll be able to do whatever you want soon, anyway. Once I fall asleep, I’ll be dead to the--” he yawned-- “World,” he finished, and hiccuped again. 

Drunk Draco was...charming, Harry had to admit. Draco’s hair had a little bit of curl to it, he noticed, when it wasn’t slicked back. Harry realized there was a fond smile on his face, and bit his lip. 

Draco was snoring, softly. Harry tapped him on the shoulder, and he mumbled something, rolled over onto his back again, eyes still shut. His sweater had slid up his stomach the tiniest bit. Harry felt an urge to lift it, to see what was beneath… 

He remembered Malfoy’s rather troubling remark, about Harry being able to do anything he wanted. It would be incredibly violating, he realized, his hand falling back to his side. And so, despite his curiosity, he laid a blanket over Draco, instead, and lay down on the floor beside him to drink himself to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry, he really tries in this chapter and Draco isn't quite having it, lol. I imagine Draco having very low self-efficacy and a sort of learned helplessness from all the situations he's been stuck in, so trying to convince him he can recover and change is going to be a hard job. Luckily our boy Harry is stubborn as hell. 
> 
> As always, leave a comment, tell me what you thought, hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!


	16. In which Draco has a hangover and an unexpected guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of set up, but there's some domestic fluff mixed in. Hope you enjoy <3

Draco woke on the couch, his head pounding and his stomach turning. He sat up groggily, and pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, willing himself not to throw up. Potter was sleeping on the floor beside him, head on his arm, still wearing his glasses. His hair had fallen back off his forehead, and Draco could clearly see his scar, jagged as lightning. 

Potter rolled over on the floor with a quiet groan, and slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Oh...hey,” he said, giving Draco a sleepy half smile. 

Draco felt that soft, warm feeling swelling in his heart again, rising in his throat, and swallowed it. “Hey, yourself.” 

“Hungry?” Potter asked, searching the floor with a hand for his glasses. 

“They’re on your face.” The words coming out less scathing than he’d intended and more fondly amused.

“Ah, man…” Potter took them off and rubbed his eyes, still looking half asleep. 

“And no, I’m not hungry, I’m struggling not to puke as it is.” 

Potter stood, swaying on his feet slightly. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and started down the stairs. 

Draco looked down at himself, on the couch, a musty-smelling blanket laid over him. Had Potter done that? Draco struggled to remember the night before. It was very, very foggy. He was fairly certain he remembered holding Potter’s hand, but that couldn’t be real, could it? Then he remembered the crying, and the apologizing, and laid back down, a deep blush spreading over his face. 

Getting that drunk had definitely been a mistake, but he hadn’t been able to stand the way he’d felt any more. 

And after all that, Potter had given him the couch? Draco had been so drunk, he would have passed out at the kitchen table. 

When Potter came back from the kitchen, he was holding two mugs. He handed one to Draco. “Here. I put this potion in it--it’s an instant hangover cure.” 

Draco sat up, grimacing as all his injuries burned at once, and took a sip. It scalded his tongue slightly, but it just tasted like sweet coffee. He set the mug down on the table by his head. 

Potter dropped to the floor again beside him, cradling his mug in his hands, glasses fogging up from the steam. 

“Did you...did you mean to give me the couch last night?” Draco asked. 

Potter nodded. 

“Why’d you sleep on the floor?” 

“You seemed like you didn’t want to be alone,” Potter said, wiping his glasses with his sleeve.

Draco felt his cheeks warming again, wondering if he’d said something to that effect. He couldn’t remember. 

“And besides,” Potter continued, pausing to take a sip of coffee, “This has basically become my bedroom. The rest of the house kind of creeps me out, to be honest.” 

“Why’d you give me the couch, then? I would have passed out anywhere.” 

Potter lowered his mug, looking almost offended. “It’s my house, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor.” 

“I’m not a guest,” Draco reminded him. 

“I’ve...sort of been thinking of you as one, I guess. Keeps me from, ya know…” he twirled a finger beside his head. “Losing my mind.” 

So Potter had let him sleep on the couch and elected to sleep on the floor, instead, because Draco had seemed lonely. Draco sighed, lying back down again. “You really are a saint, aren’t you, Potter?” 

“Just my clumsy attempt at...basic human decency.” 

“Some would say that’s more than I deserve,” Draco mumbled, staring at the ceiling. 

“Yeah, well…” Potter took another sip of coffee. “They can fight me.” 

Draco propped himself up on one arm to drink some of his own. After a few long sips, he was feeling better, the headache fading, his stomach settling. He felt almost comfortable.

Most of his injuries were healing by now, bruises fading. And he was lucky, he reminded himself, that Potter hadn’t given him any more. Draco rolled his wrist gingerly, even though he knew it would just make it worse. The cuts on his chest burned. 

A thought struck him. Potter _had_ been curious, yesterday. “Last night, I was all the way passed out, after drinking that much, wasn’t I?” 

Potter nodded, a half smile of remembrance on his face, but it faded as he saw Draco’s troubled look. 

“You didn’t, by any chance...I mean, I would understand if you did, I guess, but…” 

“Didn’t what?” Potter asked, sounding disturbed. “I didn’t do anything, I just put the blanket on you.” 

“You didn’t...look under my sweater, did you?” 

“No.” Potter shook his head emphatically. 

Draco narrowed his eyes. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I was tempted, but...ah, hell, Malfoy, you know I’m a bad liar. I didn’t,” he said, meeting Draco’s gaze. “I swear.” 

Potter was right, he was a bad liar, and at the moment, those eyes looked nothing but sincere. 

“Pinkie promise?” Draco asked, holding out his little finger and giving Potter a small, crooked smile. 

Potter smiled back, and reached up to hook his pinkie finger with Draco’s. “Pinkie promise.” 

They stayed like that for a moment, fingers linked, looking at each other. Draco flushed, pulling his hand away. He didn’t want to let on how nice it felt, having any kind of contact with another person. Even just linking fingers was strangely calming. He remembered the offer of a hug Potter had made the day before, and wondered once again if he’d been serious. Knowing Potter, the cheesy bastard, he probably had been. 

“Hungry yet?” Potter asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Second-best hangover cure is bacon and eggs.” 

“Alright,” Draco agreed, yawning. He followed Potter down to the kitchen, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

It was amusing, watching Potter cook. He swore a lot, cracking eggs clumsily with his wand while he drank coffee with his other hand, banging pans around on the stove, scrubbing the bottom of them with a spatula when things stuck, burning his fingers. It was a bit of a chaotic mess, but it smelled good. Or maybe that was just the hangover talking. 

Potter finally dropped a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of him with a proud smile. “There. Not even I can muck this up. Made it for the Dursleys a hundred times.”

“Who are the Dursleys?” Draco asked, struggling to remember what Potter had told him so far as he picked up his fork. 

“The Muggles who raised me,” Potter said, already seated and tucking into his eggs. 

“The abusive ones? They made you _cook_ for them?” 

Potter smiled sardonically, washing down a mouthful of scrambled eggs with coffee. “They did worse, trust me.” 

“What did they do?” Draco asked, before realizing it had probably been a faux pas, asking about Potter’s childhood trauma out of the blue like that. He certainly didn’t want to talk about his own, while hungover and trying to eat. 

But Potter just shrugged. “Ah, I’m making it sound worse than it was. Worst they ever did was lock me up for days when they were mad at me.”

“They locked you in your room?” Draco whispered. No wonder Potter thought people would be happier if he weren’t around to muck up their lives. 

“Well, eventually, when I was a teenager. When I was a kid, they used to lock me in this broom cupboard under the stairs--you don’t wanna hear me go on about it,” he finished hurriedly, taking a large bite of bacon. 

“A _broom cupboard?”_ Draco said, horrified. 

“Believe me, after everything that happened to me as a teenager, I started to miss the broom cupboard.” 

“That’s awful, Potter.” 

Potter shrugged again. “Could have been worse.” 

“That’s not the point,” Draco retorted. 

“I mean, they never tried to kill me, or torture me, so…” Potter ran a hand through his hair, finally abandoning his fork to stare into his coffee. 

“I’m not an expert, but I think most people remember being a child and feel nostalgic, not...try to convince themselves it could have been worse.” Not that Draco’s childhood had exactly been idyllic, but...was anyone’s?

“I don’t like thinking of myself as a child,” Potter said, his fingers gripping his mug tightly. “Makes it all hurt more, I guess.” 

Draco could understand that, how Potter might find imagining himself as an adult easier. He’d certainly been treated like one by everyone around him. “You at least have to admit they were awful to you,” Draco said. “The Dursleys, I mean.” 

Potter winced. “They weren’t great. But at least they kept me alive.” 

The blanket was slipping off Draco’s shoulders; he let it fall, crossing his arms. “Potter, I gave you hell for seven years, and when I showed up at your house, you treated me--like this.” He uncrossed his arms for a moment to gesture around, at his jumper, at the food, the coffee. “Can you imagine treating a defenseless child--your own flesh and blood--the way the Dursleys treated you?” 

Potter hesitated, and finally shook his head. “Alright, fine. They were awful.” He looked back up at Draco. “Now can we stop throwing a pity party about my sad excuse for a childhood?” 

“Yeah, we can stop. I--I shouldn’t have brought it up out of nowhere, anyway.” 

“It’s okay, I’m the one who brought it up,” Potter said, aggressively stabbing the last of his eggs and bacon on his fork. 

Draco pulled the blanket back around his shoulders and ate his own food, while Potter sipped the remains of his coffee in silence. Draco’s eyes fell on the marks around Potter’s wrist. They’d finally darkened to a deep violet. Draco felt a stab of guilt, knowing he was responsible. The curse had certainly punished him for it, viciously, but that hadn’t been Potter’s idea. Potter hadn’t even brought the incident up, since it happened. 

Draco looked down, at the bruises around his own wrists, the raw skin. It still stung, and it hurt every time he moved his hands--along with his neck and ankles. Potter had offered so many times to heal it with magic…but the thought of a wand raised at him still sent shivers down his spine. He sighed heavily, disgusted with himself. How many times had he faced down Aurors, looked them steadily in the eyes as they shoved a wand in his face, spitting threats? Potter had been absurdly nice, why was he still so afraid? 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Potter said suddenly, jarring him. 

“Is that some kind of Muggle phrase?” Draco asked, as a deflection. He was pretty sure Potter had said it before. 

“It means, like...Knut for your thoughts?”

Draco looked up at him. “You’re overpaying,” he said flatly, trying not to stare at Potter’s eyes. They were so green, in the soft morning light spilling through the basement window. 

Potter laughed softly, running a hand through his overgrown bangs. “Fine, you don’t have to tell me.”

Draco leaned back in his chair and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, happy Potter wasn’t pushing the issue. He didn’t feel like talking about how pathetic he felt.

Potter rose. “I’m going shopping,” he said, stretching with a groan. “Want anything?” 

Draco shrugged. “Wouldn’t say no to a Chocolate Frog or two.” 

“Would you say no to some new clothes?” 

Draco considered. The ones he was wearing _were_ pretty disgusting, covered in blood and sweat and dirt...and they smelled… 

“Wouldn’t say no to clothes, either,” Draco replied finally. 

“Know your size?”

“No idea.” He’d both grown and lost weight in the past five years, and by now, Draco didn’t have the slightest clue. 

“I’ll guess, and buy you a belt,” Potter said, downing the last of his coffee and heading for the stairs. 

Draco watched him leave, and then rose to clean the kitchen. It was the least he could do, if Potter were really buying him clothes. And it was a nice distraction from how much he hated himself. 

An hour or so after Potter left, there was a knock on the door. Draco froze, sitting on the floor in the living room, and slowly lowered the book he’d been reading. What if it was the Aurors again? It had been some comfort, having Potter there. Draco didn’t want to face Corbyn alone.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Draco rose unsteadily and walked to the door, peering through the peephole. He saw ginger hair and a freckled face staring back at him. Ron Weasley, holding an armful of books. 

Fingers shaky, Draco swung the door open. “Mr. Weasley.” 

Ron raised an eyebrow at him. “Did you just call me _Mr. Weasley?”_ he asked, sounding almost insulted. 

“Potter isn’t home, I’m sorry.” Draco assumed--and hoped--that was who Ron was looking for. 

“That’s uh...that's fine. Just came over to give you these, anyway. Compliments of Hermione.” Ron stepped forward to dump the pile of books into Draco’s arms, and then pulled a satchel full of parchments off his shoulder and dropped it to the floor.

Draco set the books down, wrists aching, and then immediately regretted it, his arms feeling empty. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “Mr--Um…” ‘Mr. Weasley’ had annoyed him, but ‘Ron’ sounded far too familiar. “Um...Weasley, I just want you to know how sorry I am for--” 

“I just want you to know how much I don’t care,” Ron interrupted him. 

Draco hesitated, studying the floor, knowing he was in dangerous waters. Hermione had custody of his mother, and he was speaking to her husband, who for all intents and purposes had control over Draco’s mother as well. He couldn’t afford to make Ron any angrier than he already was. 

“You’re right, I don’t know why you would care...how I feel, I just...I know I owe you an apology,” Draco finished, unused to stumbling over his words. 

“Save it, Malfoy. You’re only being polite cause your mum is technically my prisoner, and I could make her life miserable if I really wanted to. For your information, I’m not that kind of sick bastard.”

Draco met Ron’s eyes carefully, trying to gauge his honesty.

Ron snorted softly. “I know you might find it shocking, but not everyone in this world is as selfish as you. Some of us don’t use our power to push other people down. And I didn’t spend seven years fighting evil just to turn right around and become it.”

Draco wet his lips, mouth feeling dry. Talking to Ron was a bitter reminder of the person Draco used to be, of how many enemies he’d made. “I didn’t mean to make any implications about your character, I just...” He couldn’t think of anything to say besides another apology, so he bit his tongue. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, Draco staring down at Ron’s shoes.

“Listen to me, going on like a self-righteous bunghole,” Ron muttered. He sighed heavily, voice softening. “I know family is important to you, Malfoy. It’s important to me, too. Narcissa’s safe with us, I swear. She’s committed her share of crimes, but she’s paid for them probably a hundred times over. And like I said, I’m not here to hang it over your head.” 

“Thank you,” Draco said, sincerely. It was a small comfort, knowing Ron shared Hermione’s sentiments about his mother. He could feel Ron staring at him, and looked up.

“Is he feeding you?” Ron asked, looking slightly disturbed by the state of Draco’s health. 

“Potter’s been exceedingly generous.” 

“Still not on first name terms with the git, are you?” Ron looked down at his own feet, kicking the leaves on the doormat absently. “Not sure I am either, these days,” he murmured. 

Ron sounded hurt. It was understandable. Draco remembered what Potter had said, that night in the office. _Sometimes I think everyone would be happier if I just locked myself in a closet somewhere..._ He took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t about to piss Ron off even more, and pushed the words out of his mouth. “He’s really in a bad way, you know. Your friend.” 

Ron looked up at him, eyes narrowed, head tilted. 

“I don’t think he meant to ignore you,” Draco continued. “I think he just assumes everyone’s better off without him.”

“What the hell do you know about it, Malfoy?” Ron’s voice was dangerously quiet.

“Nothing, really,” Draco said hurriedly. “But a friend is a valuable thing to lose.” He swallowed, hard. “Take it from someone who has none.” 

Ron opened his mouth, and then shut it again, hesitating. “Friends like Harry are hard to come by,” he said hoarsely. 

“He’s a good man,” Draco agreed. 

Ron looked back down at his shoes, and when he spoke, it was almost in a whisper. “Take care of him for me, will ya?” 

Draco nodded. “I’ll try.” 

“Like I told him, door’s always open, if he wants to drag his arse over.” There was a strange, pained look on Ron’s face. He turned to leave. 

“Thanks, for um…” Draco cleared his throat. “Coming by.” 

Ron glanced back over his shoulder to give Draco a tired, wry smile. “Yeah, anything for you, old buddy.” 

Draco shut the door as Ron Disapparated, and leaned back against it, taking a few deep breaths. That had gone...surprisingly well. Better than he’d thought it would, at least. He’d known Potter’s friends wouldn’t be happy to see him—Hermione had been very kind, but he was fairly certain it was out of pity. Ron, on the other hand...he’d expected far more vindictiveness. He could faintly remember Ron had lost a brother, in the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco had anticipated a reaction more akin to Corbyn’s. 

_I didn’t fight evil for seven years just to turn around and become it._

Draco had heard Aurors say similar things, and then behave very differently behind closed doors. 

But he suspected, to Ron Weasley, they were more than just pretty words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Ron! What did you guys think? For a character who appears on the surface to be the "Bland Best Friend," he's a lot deeper than he looks and kind of hard to get right. It's way too easy to turn him into a raging asshole or a total idiot.  
> Hopefully I did him justice, I love him so much, my sweet ginger child, he has so many emotions <3
> 
> And poor Draco, he's feeling down on himself again. He'll get healed soon, I pinkie promise


	17. In which Harry buys Draco a T-shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like 99% fluff, and I'm not even sorry. I blame the fact that I was listening to Sweet Tooth by Cavetown while writing it. (My ADHD ass can't write without music on repeat in the background) 
> 
> Anyway, if you're in the mood for tooth-rotting fluff with a side of Harry angst, dinner is served folks

Harry walked inside his house and dropped his bags on the ground. His living room appeared to have been turned into a highly disorganized library--there were books and parchments spread everywhere. 

Malfoy was sitting on the floor in the middle of it, the end of a quill between his teeth. 

“Doing some ‘light reading’ again?” Harry said. 

“Hermione sent over some research material.” Malfoy stuck the quill into the book on his lap and shut it. “How was shopping?” 

“Went to a wizard store.” Harry reached into one of his bags, pulled out a Chocolate Frog, and tossed it to Malfoy. “I probably made it into the tabloids, so enjoy that.” 

Malfoy smirked. “Ah, the bittersweet price of fame.” He ripped into the wrapper and took a bite, shutting his eyes. “Chocolate. I missed chocolate.” Malfoy looked down at the card he’d gotten. He smirked, and then it spread into a smile, and then he started laughing. 

“What?” Harry asked, stepping closer to try and see the card. 

Malfoy held it to his chest, still laughing. 

“What’s so funny, Malfoy?” 

“I--I got  _ you,” _ Malfoy choked out.

Harry tried to swipe the card from him, but Malfoy was too quick. 

He shook his head, chuckling. “Oh, no, I’m keeping this forever. Maybe one day I’ll even get it signed. It’s always been my dream to meet the famous Harry Potter, you know--”

“Okay, okay, very funny.” 

Malfoy held it up and read it in a dramatic tone of mock adoration. “The Savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter is most famous for his defeat of Lord Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, and being the only known person to ever survive the Killing Curse, earning him the title of The Boy Who Lived. In his spare time, he enjoys drinking his feelings and collecting trash--”

“That’s  _ not _ what it says--” Harry said, diving for the card again. Malfoy rolled away and Harry leapt towards him, managing to get his hands on the card. They ended up on top of each other, in a disorganized heap. Draco was breathing hard beneath him, his ice blue eyes wide. He didn’t look scared, just surprised. Harry stared back for a moment, breathless. 

He felt himself blushing, and hurriedly rolled off Malfoy and onto his back on the floor. “If you had one of those, it would say ‘Draco Malfoy is most famous for being the world’s biggest git,’” he said, staring at the ceiling. 

Malfoy chuckled softly beside him. “A title I hold with great pride.”

“And in his spare time he enjoys making Harry Potter’s life miserable.” 

“My oldest and fondest pastime.” 

Harry shoved his glasses up his nose, and then remembered an item he’d bought that would make a small revenge. He sat up and pulled one of his shopping bags over to rifle through it.

“What do you think?” Harry said, holding up the T-shirt he’d bought for Malfoy, lime green with black lettering that said ‘I speak fluent sarcasm.’ 

Malfoy was fixing his hair after their short tussle; he looked up at the shirt, and then glared daggers at Harry. “I’m not wearing that.” 

“Um, I seem to recall you have to do whatever I say, so I really think you are.” 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him, seemingly trying to figure out how serious Harry was. He must have realized Harry was kidding, because an amused smirk spread across his face. “First this hideous thing--” he pulled the jumper away from his body with two fingers-- “And now that? This is your form of retribution for my crimes, isn’t it? Mild humiliation in the form of bad fashion.” 

“You got me,” Harry said, throwing the T-shirt at Malfoy. “This is my real revenge.” 

Malfoy shook his head in mock disgust. “I knew it. You’re a truly cruel man, Harry Potter. If the world only knew.” 

“You can write a tell-all exposé about your experiences someday, show my true nature to the Wizarding World.” 

“Forced to eat a strange rat-meat pancake, made to wear excruciatingly lame Muggle T-shirt--” 

“You poor thing, how will you ever get over the trauma--” 

“The millions I get from my novel about Harry Potter’s dark secrets will help ease the emotional pain, I’m sure.” 

They sat there for a moment, on the floor, still chuckling at their own stupid jokes. It was nice, hearing Draco’s genuine laugh, seeing him amused rather than wary, guard dropping just a little. 

Harry dragged the rest of his shopping closer and threw some more clothes at Malfoy. “Here. You don’t actually have to wear that shirt, you know.” The idea of Malfoy wearing it was amusing, but the fact that Harry could pull out his wand and literally  _ force _ Malfoy to put it on took the fun out of it. 

“Oh, I don’t know. It kind of suits me.” Malfoy held the shirt up to his chest. “And you have to admit, green  _ is _ my color.”

“If you’re actually going to put it on, you have to let me take a picture.” 

Malfoy shook his head. “Oh no, this is for your eyes only.”

“C’mon, please?” 

“Fine.” Malfoy sighed. “Let me take a bath first, at least.” 

Malfoy came down the stairs to the kitchen a little while later, wearing the lime green top, arms crossed over the lettering. His hair was still wet, slicked back from his face, and he was managing to make the plain black sweatpants Harry had bought for him look like elegant casual wear.

Harry pulled his camera from the drawer. “C’mon, just one.” 

“Alright, alright,” Malfoy said with a groan, dropping his arms and posing, leaned back against the kitchen table. As Harry raised his camera to snap the picture, Malfoy raised his middle finger. Harry pulled the photo out and shook it. 

“You better keep that, cause I am never putting this on again,” Malfoy said.

“I don’t know, I think you’re kind of pulling it off,” Harry replied, looking him up and down. The words came out more sincere than he’d intended. Green really  _ was _ Draco’s color. Although maybe not that particular shade. 

Malfoy preened a tiny bit at the compliment, running a hand over his hair. “You think?” 

Harry gave him a teasing half-smile, handing him the photograph to let it develop. “Tacky Muggle fashion has never looked better.” 

Malfoy looked down at the shirt’s lettering. “Figured I owed you a laugh at my expense. After everything.”

Harry bit his lip, wondering exactly what Malfoy was referring to. If he was referring to their years of rivalry, then maybe, a little. But part of Harry worried that Malfoy was referring to the way Harry had treated him since he’d arrived, which Malfoy seemed to sincerely believe was overly kind. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Harry said finally, just in case. 

Malfoy looked up, expression unreadable. “Well then,  _ you _ owe  _ me _ a glass of wine.” 

Harry conceded, opening one of the bottles of wizard liquor he’d purchased that day. The wine sparkled as it poured, the gentle scent of roses filling the air. He handed Malfoy a glass, and then poured another, and raised it. “What should we drink to?” 

Malfoy considered. “To Hermione Granger’s health,” he said, with a soft, fond smile. 

“To Hermione.” Harry clinked their glasses. “Cheers, Malfoy.” 

“Cheers, Potter,” Malfoy said, and they drank. 

They spent the next hour cooking--or rather, Harry spent the next hour cooking, while Malfoy observed him from a seat on the counter, glass of wine in hand, and criticized his technique in every possible way. 

Harry finally straightened up from checking the roast, arms folded, after Malfoy suggested he buy the thing a drink first before he started poking it. “I’m the Savior of the Wizarding World, remember? People buy  _ me _ drinks.” 

“And then you poke them? Or do they poke you?” 

“It’s not that cut and dry,” Harry retorted, slamming the oven door shut and treating Malfoy to a disparaging look. “I told you, good sex is like a conversation. You’ll understand when you’re older.” 

“Just wondering if the Chosen One is a Chaser or a Keeper.” Malfoy took a sip of wine. “I read your Chocolate Frog card, but it didn’t say.” 

Harry caught his eyes, and held them. “What makes you so curious, Malfoy?” he said softly. 

Malfoy opened his mouth, but no words came out. A slight hint of pink colored his cheeks. “Just messing around. No need to get all offended.”

“I’m not offended.” Harry retrieved his own glass from the counter, and swirled the liquor, watched it glimmer as it caught the light. He raised his gaze again, slowly. “But if you want to know, you’ll have to find out for yourself.” 

Malfoy scoffed quietly. “I’m not  _ that _ curious.” 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to wonder,” Harry said, with a wink, and took a sip of wine. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and then drained his own glass before holding it out for a refill. Harry obliged him. 

Malfoy looked down at the wine as it sparkled, sending fractals of rainbow light over the floor. “Ron came by today,” he said, out of nowhere. 

Harry leaned back against the counter, trying to imagine that particular meeting, and failing. “How’d that go?” 

“He seemed worried about you.” 

“Did he seem mad?” Harry asked, swallowing with difficulty. 

“At me, or at you?” 

Harry shrugged. “Has a right to be mad at the both of us, I guess.” 

“He was remarkably kind, about my situation.” Malfoy set his wine down to stare at the floor, apparently searching for words. “As for yours, I suppose you’ll have to work that out with him, but...he seemed like he missed you.” 

Harry ran a hand through his hair. He knew he’d hurt Ron, deeply. If there was one thing Ron hated, it was being ignored, overlooked, forgotten. And if Ron had been mad about Harry breaking up with Ginny, Harry had made it a hundred times worse by not talking to him about it. Harry knew it hadn’t always been easy, being the Chosen One’s best mate. But through everything, Ron had never abandoned him. There had been that one time, while they were hunting for Horcruxes, but Harry blamed the locket for that more than he blamed Ron. And even then, even at the darkest hour, Ron had come back. Ron hadn’t just fought beside him, Ron had  _ been there _ , through all the ups and downs. Ron had made him feel like part of a family. Ron was one of the best things that had ever happened to Harry, and Harry had turned his back on him. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Malfoy said, tone forcedly light-hearted. 

“I think…” Harry finished his drink and poured another. “I think Ron Weasley deserves better than me." 

“Maybe you should let him be the judge of that.” 

Harry shook his head. He’d been at rock bottom, when Ginny left. And with every week of self-isolation that had passed, he’d felt guiltier. But as the weeks turned into months, facing Ron had gotten harder and harder, until it felt impossible. After throwing away a friendship like that, Harry couldn’t help but feel like the best thing he could do was stay away. 

“Friends like you are hard to come by.” 

Harry looked up sharply. 

“That’s what Ron said, about you.” Malfoy’s voice was soft, sincere. His gaze was searching as it met Harry’s. 

“You talked about me?” Harry asked. 

“Just for a minute.” Malfoy shrugged half-heartedly. “Like I said, I think he misses you. He said the door was always open.” 

Harry ran a hand through his hair again. Trust Ron to be that forgiving. Friends like  _ Ron  _ were hard to come by. Part of him desperately wanted to reach out, to step through the open door. Most of him wanted to slam it shut, and sit in the dark. 

“Ron and Hermione seem...happy,” Harry muttered finally. “Well-adjusted. I don’t want to drag them into…my mess.”

“They fought  _ Voldemort _ with you, Potter. You think they can’t handle your potion problem?” 

Harry looked up. “I don’t have a--that’s not the point. They’ve done enough. They fought when the safety of everyone was at stake, yeah. This is just...me wallowing in self-pity.” 

“You’re processing years of trauma, that’s what you’re doing. You really think they don’t want to help you? They’re probably the only ones who get it, what you’re going through.” 

“Why do you care, anyway?” Harry shot back. 

Malfoy looked away. “I’m not trying to...get in the middle of your drama, I just…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, if I overstepped.” 

“You didn’t,” Harry said, after a moment. “I’m just honestly surprised that you give a damn.” 

“Yeah, I give a damn. You’re…” He looked back at Harry, met his eyes. His expression was pained. “You’re not doing well, Potter. And like I said, you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend.” 

“And like I said, I’m a sorry excuse for one.” 

“Whatever you want to tell yourself,” Malfoy replied, sounding exasperated. 

Harry looked down at the glass in his hands. “Are we friends?” he asked quietly. 

He heard Malfoy shift his weight on the counter. “Do you...do you want to be?” 

“I mean...yeah. We could be.” 

Draco considered for a moment. “I wouldn't mind that,” he said finally. 

Harry looked up at him. Draco Malfoy, sitting on his kitchen counter, in an ‘I speak fluent sarcasm’ T-shirt, glass of wizard wine in his hand. Five years ago--hell, a week ago, Harry wouldn’t have been able to imagine anything more bizarre. The absurdity of the situation hit him out of nowhere, and he smiled. 

Draco smiled back, blue eyes sparkling in the light. 

They really might as well be friends, at this point. Harry stepped closer, and held out his hand, raising an eyebrow. “Friends?” 

Draco’s smile turned bittersweet, full of memories. “If you’re a sorry excuse for one, not sure what that makes me.” 

“We can be sorry excuses for friends, then.” 

Draco’s smile widened ever so slightly. “I’d like that,” he said. He reached out, and he shook Harry’s hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is basically just Harry and Draco flirting with each other without realizing that's what they're doing lmao. So...just like canon?
> 
> Last chapter was a little crap--not trying to be disparaging about my writing, but usually my scenes have more direction than that. Anyway, hopefully this one came out better. Love you all, thanks for all the encouragement <3


	18. In which Draco faces his fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really excited to post this one, it’s one of the scenes that inspired the whole fic. As a result, I did that thing where I obsess over editing and I'm still not satisfied, so I'm crossing my fingers and posting it. Hope you enjoy <3

Draco sighed and flipped the page of the book he’d been reading, fingers twirling his quill. As frustrating as it was, not finding much in the texts Ron had delivered, reading was still calming. Rain was hammering on the windows outside, turning the light coming through the curtains a soft gray, and the fire was crackling and popping softly. It had been a quiet day, so far. Potter had made eggs and coffee again that morning, and brought it to Draco where he’d been sleeping beside the couch. Breakfast-on-floor, as Potter had called it. Little kindnesses like that shouldn’t have even surprised Draco, by now, but he still found himself taken aback at every one. 

Draco had stopped trying to puzzle out Potter’s motives, and simply decided that Potter must pity him. It was still surprising--that Potter would feel anything for Draco at all--but Draco couldn’t deny he was a disgustingly pathetic figure, these days. Apparently Potter was just that nice of a person, that Draco’s sorry condition made him feel sympathetic rather than satisfied. But if he were being honest, the way Potter had treated him went beyond pity. 

Draco set the book down in his lap, and looked up at Potter, trying to wrap his head around the idea of them being friends. Draco had agreed to it last night, but he couldn’t help but feel like Potter was just being _nice._

Potter was sitting on the couch and gazing at the fire, his eyes a million miles away, a long-since cooled cup of coffee in his hands. 

The idea of Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, being friends with a former Death Eater was laughable. But Draco didn’t feel like laughing, watching Potter stare into the flames. 

Friendship--part of Draco was starved for it, and part of him felt sick at the thought. He didn’t think he was made out of the right stuff, to be a friend. And as much as he wanted it, he knew he didn’t deserve it. Especially not a friendship like Harry’s. _Potter’s,_ he corrected himself. Although they might as well be on first name terms, at this point, it still felt too strange, calling his old rival Harry. 

Draco stretched and rose, startling Potter out of his reverie, and gently tugged the coffee mug from Potter’s hands. “Want a refill?” he asked. 

“Only if you pour some Jack in it.” 

Draco leaned back to eye the grandfather clock in the hall. “Potter, it’s two in the afternoon.” 

Potter took his glasses off to scrub a hand over his face, and squinted up at Draco. “Going to give me a lecture about my ‘potion problem?’”

“I’m not trying to lecture you, just...maybe you should eat something, instead.” 

“Wouldn’t say no to some toast,” Potter conceded, and Draco headed down the stairs to the kitchen to make him some. 

In a way, he felt strangely responsible for Potter. Like it or not, he’d been dumped into the man’s lap, and into the center of his storm. And even though Draco knew he could never make a very good friend--or even a sorry excuse for one--he was still going to give it his best shot. 

The fire had died to embers, and what soft light had managed to filter through the clouds and curtains from outside was beginning to fade. The rain was coming down softer, now, tapping gently against the glass. 

Draco was staring down at the book he had propped up on his knees, although it had long since become too dark for reading. He was looking at his arms, at the runes and bruises around his wrists. 

Even if Potter wasn’t going to take advantage of the power he held--which Draco was _fairly_ certain he wasn’t--Draco’s own powerlessness still sent shivers down his spine. Every time Potter so much as reached for his wand, Draco braced for the worst, every muscle tense and his mind scrambling in all directions. He wasn’t sure he could willingly allow Potter to raise it at him, or stay still long enough for Potter to heal him. 

He thought of when Potter had taken the chains off him, his first day in the House of Black. He’d stared straight back at Potter and his raised wand, still as stone. Had he really gone that soft in just a few days? 

Surely, if Potter wanted to use magic to hurt him, he would have by now. And even if he changed his mind, he didn’t need Draco’s permission. 

So why was the idea of allowing Potter to heal him so damn terrifying? 

“What is it?” Potter asked softly. 

Draco must have allowed his state of mind to cloud his expression, he realized, still staring down. He’d shown a shameful amount of vulnerability already, but at every turn, Potter had responded with sympathy rather than derision. Draco tried to bite back his thoughts from slipping past his lips, but it had been far too long since he’d had someone to open up to. Someone who called themselves his friend, and followed through. 

The words came out of his mouth. “I feel pathetic.” 

“Why’s that?” Potter said, his voice careful. 

“Because you’ve been nothing but…” _Compassionate. Empathetic. Sweet, concerned, respectful--_ “Nice, to me, since I got here. And I’m too much of a coward to even let you heal me. I didn’t used to be that way--I mean, having a wand raised at me made me wary, for good reason, but I could at least _pretend_ to be brave.” Draco sighed. “And let’s face it, Potter, if you want to hurt me, you certainly don’t need my consent.” 

“Maybe that’s the issue,” Potter said thoughtfully. “Consent.” 

Draco looked up at him, his eyes going cold. “I told you, Potter, no matter what your intentions are, if you--” 

“Relax,” Potter interrupted him, holding up his palms. “Do you see me reaching for my wand? I’m just saying, maybe that’s what bothers you. Giving me permission.” 

Draco looked away again. “Shouldn’t that make me _less_ nervous, though? Knowing you’re only doing what I allow you to?” 

Potter was silent. 

Draco fisted his hands. More words began falling from his lips, unbidden. “I was certain you were going to torture me, when I first got here. But now, I really...I don’t think you are. I don’t even think you want to, honestly.” He squeezed his fists tighter. The shakes spread, from his fingers up his arms. “So _why_ am I still so scared?” 

“Do you want to know what I think?” Potter asked. He sounded wary of offering his opinion. Draco had to admit he'd consistently responded with anger when Potter tried to give him advice in the past. 

“Yes,” Draco answered, eventually. 

“I think you have a right to be wary. I think I’d be terrified, if I were you. And, well…” Potter cleared his throat, apparently choosing his words. “I think that’s why you didn’t want me working any kind of spell on you, in the beginning. But I think if I pulled my wand out, right now, and threatened you with it, you’d just stare straight back at me--probably dare me to do it. You haven’t backed down from a fight since you got here.” 

Draco played the scenario out in his head. He was fairly certain Potter was right. Sure, Draco would be afraid, but showing fear, showing weakness, usually just made whatever was coming worse, like running from a dog. So Draco had learned how to subdue it, how to hide inside himself, to project nothing but confidence. It still took effort, but it was fairly reflexive, by now. 

“But I remember how uncomfortable you got,” Potter continued, “When I came after your foot with nothing but gauze and whiskey. So...maybe it’s not the wand that scares you, Draco. Maybe...maybe it’s the trust.” 

Draco bit his lip, considering. In a way, he realized, _allowing_ Potter to heal him felt like showing weakness, felt like letting someone in, opening the door on all the hurt and pain he’d kept locked away behind his eyes, squeezed tight in his fists, shoved down to the bottom of the deep black pit in his stomach. The thought made Draco sick, just like all of the flinches, the tears, the moments of panic and fury and self-hatred he’d allowed Potter to witness. In a way, he’d almost _rather_ have Potter threaten him, even hurt him--at least that would be familiar. At least Draco knew how to handle that. His breath was shallow, his eyes stinging. 

Potter slipped off the couch to sit on the floor beside him. “It’s okay, you know, we can wait...we can just sit here and complain about the weather, if you like…” 

Draco shook his head. “No, I’m tired of avoiding it.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, cramming the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the tears in a well-practiced motion. Had it really come to this? Had Azkaban really messed him up that badly, that now even the thought of kindness turned him inside out with dread? 

But it went back further than that, he realized. It went back to his time serving Voldemort, struggling to steel himself, to smother his every emotion and hide the ones he couldn’t. It went back to being eleven, sealing off all his thoughts from the sorting hat except one, _Slytherin._ It went back to being six, pulling his robes up to gingerly inspect a skinned knee, his father hauling him off the ground by his collar, _Never let them see you bleed, Draco._

It was the one thing Draco had always, always been good at, hiding his weakness and projecting nothing but confidence. He’d spent his life washing his tears and blood down the drain in private, silently yelling at himself in the mirror. And never, ever asking for help. 

Draco took another deep breath, wet his cracked lips. The air was chilly in the absence of the fire, the room quiet, the only sound the rain pattering against the windows. 

_Screw it_ , he decided. He didn’t want to go back to the person he used to be, anyway. And if Potter took his vulnerability and used it against him, so be it. His situation couldn’t get much worse. 

Draco pulled up his sleeve, extended his arm, and looked at Potter. “I trust you. Go ahead.” 

Potter’s eyes widened. Draco had been holding his breath, expecting Potter to immediately pull out his wand and start flinging spells, but Potter just sat still, regarding Draco’s battered wrist. 

“Did you want to do it now?” he asked finally. 

Draco flexed the arm, rolled the joint. “I’d rather just...get it over with, if that’s alright with you.” 

“Okay.” Potter removed his wand from his pocket slowly, but didn’t raise it, instead holding it in his lap. “Start with the wrist, then? I’m just going to use the simplest healing spell I know.” 

Draco clenched his shaking fingers, holding his elbow with his other hand to steady the arm. He realized belatedly it was his left, where his Dark Mark had resided, and that brought more than a few bad memories with it. It was also one of the Aurors’ favorite targets. Still, he nodded his assent. They had to start somewhere, and he was too self-conscious to switch now. 

Potter nodded back and raised his wand, even slower this time, to point it at Draco’s wrist. _“Lumos,”_ he whispered. 

Draco stared at Potter’s face, rather than focusing on his own arm. His nerves faded, ever so slightly. Potter’s look of concentration was somewhat endearing: he was biting his lower lip, eyes narrowed, glasses slipping down his nose. He raised his other hand to push them back up, and brush his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, tucking them behind his ears. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, “Watch me cock it up, after all this…” 

“It’s okay,” Draco said, a little amused. Potter looked more nervous than he felt. 

Potter gave him a small half-smile, eyes twinkling green in the soft, glowing light. 

Draco returned it. “Go ahead,” he repeated, the _‘I trust you’_ unspoken this time.

Potter nodded at him, once, and refocused his attention on Draco’s bruised arm, moving his wand slightly closer. _“Episkey.”_

Draco felt a tiny bit of the pain fade. He looked down. Some of the abrasions seemed to have disappeared, but the skin was still raw, and it still ached. Potter’s brow furrowed in concentration, and he began muttering more healing spells, moving his wand in a slow circle. 

Draco stared at Potter as he worked. Potter’s look of concentration was growing increasingly more intense, beads of sweat forming along his hairline. But with every spell Potter cast, Draco felt a tiny bit better, as if a weight had been lifted. The pain was ebbing away, too, until finally, it disappeared altogether. Draco looked down, and found that the last of the bruises had faded. 

“I’m not the best with healing spells, but…” Potter wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “That was a lot harder than I thought it would be.” 

“Told you they weren’t ordinary chains,” Draco replied. “But you’re doing fine, honestly.” The tightness in his chest had receded, his breath slow and steady. Having Potter point a wand at him still made his stomach clench--an instinct that wasn’t going away any time soon--but he wasn’t truly afraid. 

“Did you want to do the other?” Potter asked, switching his wand to the opposite hand to wipe his palm on his jeans. 

Draco extended the other arm, ignoring the rush of nerves he felt. 

His anxiety must have shown on his face, because Potter was regarding him, eyes narrowed. “You sure?” 

Draco nodded. “I’m fine.” He swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Don’t mention it,” Potter replied, just as softly. He cracked his knuckles, and raised his wand. 

It took him almost an hour, but Potter healed every one of Draco’s injuries from the neck down, besides the cuts on his chest. Even the small ones were gone: the cut on his foot, the ache in his elbow, the bruises on his knuckles. Draco rolled his wrists, enjoying the calm silence, the absence of pain. 

Potter looked incredibly worn out, and Draco didn’t blame him. Too much healing was taxing on anyone, and the marks from the chains had been abnormally difficult to get rid of. Potter wiped his palm on his jeans again, rubbed his shoulders with a sigh, and leaned forward, wand raised towards the bruises around Draco’s neck. 

Draco looked up at him in surprise. “Are you sure you can manage it?” 

Potter sat back on his heels, giving Draco a tired half-smile. “Is that a challenge, Malfoy?” 

“Only you would take it as one,” Draco said, scoffing. “You just look exhausted.” 

Potter shrugged. “Nah, I’m alright. But we can call it quits for tonight, if you want. Or not. Up to you.” 

Draco considered. He’d really rather get it over with, and not have to work up his nerve again. And now that everything else was healed, the bruises around his neck felt even heavier, making it hard to breathe. But he felt like it was asking for too much. 

“Are you sure?” Draco asked. 

Potter hadn’t moved, but his face suddenly felt very close. 

Draco looked down at the glowing circle of light emanating from the wand raised between them. “You’ve done enough, honestly.” 

“If you want to stop, that’s fine. But not on my account.” 

Draco looked back up at him. “Alright. Have at it, then.” He tilted his head back, and Potter leaned closer again, raising his wand and narrowing his eyes. 

“Probably should have turned a light on, at some point,” he muttered, and then began to whisper the same combination of spells and incantations he’d used on Draco’s wrists and ankles. 

Draco watched Potter as he worked, feeling that bubble of emotion rising in his throat again, a sort of ache that had nothing to do with the bruises. Getting to know Potter made him wonder if he’d ever had a real friend in his life. Or if maybe, this was something different, something rarer, that people didn’t find very often. He pushed the thought away as soon as he had it. It was just the bizarre intimacy of this moment, he decided, having an enemy’s wand pointed at his throat and feeling strangely calm. 

Not an enemy, Draco reminded himself. He swallowed, hard, his neck feeling hot. 

Potter finally leaned back, satisfied, and then raised his wand one more time to tap Draco on his nose, muttering a short spell. 

Draco reached a hand up to touch his neck and face, taking a long, deep breath. “Thank you, Potter.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Potter took his glasses off to rub his eyes, looking even more exhausted now. “I need a drink.” 

“I’d say you’ve earned one.” A thought struck him. “Why don’t you let me make you dinner?” 

Potter gave him a tired attempt at a smile. “Know how to make something besides pancakes?” 

“Are you saying you’d turn down pancakes?”

“You got me there.” 

Draco stood, feeling more steady on his feet than he had in a long, long time. He offered Potter a hand. 

Potter looked up at the hand for a moment, eyes widening. Then he clasped it, and allowed Draco to haul him to his feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever project your own issues onto a character until writing a fic about them becomes a weird sort of therapy? No? Just me? 
> 
> Anyway y'all, this sort of closes out part one of this fic, part two will have more Ron and Hermione, more focus on Harry's angst, and more of Draco pining after Harry without admitting that's what he's doing, (along with more fluff) so stay tuned. 
> 
> I'm thinking about renaming it after a different song actually, cause the tone has ended up being a lot lighter than I expected (sometimes you don't know until you start writing what kind of flavor a story's going to have) So if this story suddenly ends up being called just what I needed, that’s why lol 
> 
> Finally, I just wanted to say thank you all for reading and for all the kudos, comments, and support in general. You're all really kind and I'm overwhelmed. Thank you.  
> I can’t wait to get to the next turning point in this work, and I’m having such a blast writing it.  
> Okay, thanks for reading! hope you're all doing well <3


	19. In which Harry spends a sleepless night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I took a short break. Anyway, it’s a long one, so I hope you enjoy <3

Harry leaned back in his chair, watching Draco fiddle with the stove knobs, muttering about inconsistent heating every time Harry heckled him over how long it was taking. 

Harry rubbed a hand over his aching shoulders. Healing Draco had taken more out of him than he’d like to admit, but at the same time, he felt as if a weight had been lifted. The marks on Draco, his small, half-hidden winces here and there, had been eating at the back of Harry’s mind since Draco had arrived in his custody. Maybe it was his ‘Saving People Thing,’ as Hermione would have said. But whatever the reason, Harry felt a little closer to Draco, now. Maybe it was just their situation, their forced proximity to one another, or maybe it had been being that close to Draco, hearing his breath slowly steady as Harry methodically healed him. He thought of the hand Draco had offered him, pulling him to his feet, and bit his lip. 

Draco finally began pouring pancakes, brow furrowed in concentration. 

_“Do_ you know how to make anything else?” Harry asked, taking a sip of whatever wizard liquor Draco had poured him. It was blue, and when Harry squinted, he was fairly certain he could make out small specks moving within it. He certainly didn’t remember buying it, but he probably had. He only ever seemed to meander down to the wizard market when he was already three sheets to the wind.

“I told you,” Draco said, opening the fridge. “I don’t do anything I can’t do well…” He trailed off, staring into the fridge.

Harry leaned forward, trying to see what he was looking at. He didn’t think there was anything _that_ interesting in his fridge. Unless Draco was simply horrified to see more bologna. 

Draco straightened up and turned around, holding an apple in both hands as if it were some priceless and highly fragile museum artifact. “Can I…?” 

“Be my guest,” Harry said, waving a hand. 

Draco shut his eyes, raised the apple to his mouth, and bit into it slowly. His expression was one of pure bliss as he licked juice from his lips. 

Harry realized he was openly staring, and focused his attention back on his drink. Draco was...strangely distracting, sometimes. He shook the thought out of his head.

Draco leaned back against the counter with a sigh. “I thought I missed chocolate, but this is…” 

Harry felt a small pang of guilt, still staring down at the blue liquid in his glass. Draco had been in prison for years, he must desperately miss fresh food. And Harry had fed him mostly takeout and toast. 

“Thanks,” Draco mumbled finally, setting the half-eaten apple on the counter to flip the pancakes. It seemed no matter how enraptured Draco was by a piece of fruit, he couldn’t let his pancakes burn. 

When Draco had finished fussing with the stove, he leaned back against the counter and picked up the apple. He held it in his hands, staring at it, twirling the stem. 

“Are we really friends?” he asked finally, his voice quiet, almost tremulous. 

Harry considered. “Well, we still don’t know each other that well. But...I meant what I said.” 

Draco picked at the skin of the apple with his fingernail. “I meant it, too.” 

“Then I guess we are.” 

The corner of Draco’s mouth turned up in a bitter smile. “Is that all it takes?” 

“It’s not about how a friendship starts, it’s more about keeping it going.” Harry took a sip of his drink, swallowed, hard. “Not that I’ve been much good at that lately.” 

“I’ve never been much good at it,” Draco muttered. 

“Well, we’re trapped in a house together, I’d say we have plenty of time to practice.”

“Lucky us,” Draco said, with a tired attempt at a chuckle.

They sat there in silence for a moment before Harry spoke again. “You had friends back in school, though...Crabbe and Goyle...” Harry tried to remember who else he’d seen Draco with at Hogwarts. 

Draco shrugged noncommittally. “We were friends. But I think that word meant something different to me than it does to you.” 

“What did it mean to you?” 

Draco passed the apple back and forth from hand to hand, considering. “We hung around together. They backed me up. We had a laugh, now and then.” 

“What do you think they’d say, if they saw you now?” Harry asked. He was curious--both as to how close Draco had actually been to his friends back in school, and as to how Draco saw himself these days. 

A small, smirking smile appeared on Draco’s face for a moment. “They’d probably ask what chewed me up and spat me back out again.” 

“Is that all?” Harry asked. 

Draco took another bite of the apple. “Not much for questions, Crabbe and Goyle. Or terribly astute observations.” 

That had been Harry’s opinion, as well, from what little he’d known of them. “Would you want to try and track Goyle down? Might be nice, to see a familiar face.” 

Draco shook his head immediately. “Don’t think we’d get along, anymore.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Draco was back to contemplating the apple instead of eating it. He looked conflicted, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in a tight line. “Because…” He swallowed. “I liked him because he copied off my homework and laughed at my jokes, agreed with all my opinions. But now...” He wet his lips, his voice growing quieter. “I’m tired of trying to convince myself I’m better than other people, I guess.”

Harry winced internally. It didn’t sound like Draco had accepted that he didn’t need to be better than everyone around him—it sounded like he’d simply decided he was garbage. Harry would almost prefer to see Draco go back to his old arrogance, rather than the look of self-disgust that lurked in his eyes now, but there had to be some kind of middle ground.

“People don’t have to be ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than anyone else, you know,” Harry said. “People just kinda...are.” 

Draco smirked. “I told you, Potter, life’s a game. And even I can see I’ve lost, in every way possible.” 

Harry was opening his mouth to retort when Draco suddenly whirled round to the stove, swearing.

He picked up the spatula, scraping the pancakes off the bottom of the pan and flipping them onto a plate. The bottoms of them were dark brown, almost black in some spots. 

Draco sighed tiredly. “And I can’t even make pancakes without scorching them to a crisp, apparently.” 

“I’ll still eat ‘em,” Harry said, honestly. They’d probably still taste better than anything he made himself. 

Draco turned back to give him a sharp look. “Really, Potter?” 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t mind. I used to eat the burnt ones, when I lived with the Dursleys.” 

Draco’s face looked pained, for a fleeting moment. Then he huffed. “I can’t let you eat these. My pride couldn’t take it.” 

“Alright,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair again. “I can wait.” 

Harry was lying on his back on the floor in front of the fireplace, rolling an empty bottle between his palms. He was starting to suspect the sunrise would find him in the same position, still wide awake. It was just one of those nights. And the conversations he’d had with Malfoy were still turning in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t suspected he was opening such a messy can of worms, suggesting he and Draco were friends. But considering Draco didn’t have any, these days, perhaps Harry ought to have expected it, in hindsight. And he had to admit, he felt a little strange himself, calling his old enemy a friend. But Draco looked like he could use one. 

The things Draco had said about himself were haunting Harry’s mind. The remarks about wanting to die, about being weak, pathetic, about deserving the things that had happened to him. _I just couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the way you’d look at me, if you saw me...saw me the way I see myself._ The words seemed to echo in Harry’s head. Draco had admitted a few of the things the Aurors had done to him. Harry could only imagine the things they’d said, over the years, the effect that would have on a person, trapped in a cell, alone, with nothing to think about but their own guilt.

He wondered if he could ever forgive Draco, and found himself surprised to realize that he already had. Mostly, at least. The amount that Draco had suffered, the weight of his actions obviously hanging on his shoulders...it put his desperate, foolish crimes into perspective. 

And Harry had never seen Draco as a monster, not really. He’d been a bully, fair and square--but so had Harry’s father, he remembered, the day he’d stepped into Snape’s memory needling at the back of his mind. People did plenty of dumb things, as teenagers. It had just so happened he and Draco had been caught in the middle of a war. 

Draco was clearly aware of what he’d done, of the side he’d chosen, the beliefs he’d held and the effects they’d had. And from what Harry remembered of their drunken conversation two nights ago, Draco hated himself for it. 

It was a harsh yet surprisingly subtle feeling, hating yourself. Harry knew it well. And he knew the way it clawed its way out of your chest when you were alone.

Draco had looked a little reluctant, when he’d headed for the stairs to his room after they’d finished eating. But when Harry had invited Draco to join him for a drink, he’d simply shaken his head. Harry had at least insisted on cleaning the glass from his room, and after a few protestations that he was the one who made the mess in the first place, Draco had let him. 

Harry wondered if Draco were having trouble sleeping, too. He didn’t think it was an accident, that Draco had ended up spending the last couple nights in the living room. But after their conversation in the kitchen, Draco had seemed like he wanted some space.

Harry heard a noise in the hallway, and sat up with a start. He rose, and stepped across the room to hover in the doorway. 

There was Kreacher, standing on a chair to wind the grandfather clock in the hall, a bottle of Harry’s liquor clutched in the other bony hand. 

“Oy,” Harry said. “Stealing my alcohol again, are you?” 

Kreacher startled, almost falling off the chair. His bulging eyes glanced down at the bottle in his hand and back to Harry, before clumsily hiding it behind his back. “Kreacher is cleaning, master,” he said finally, in his unearthly, croaking voice. 

“Cleaning out my liquor cabinet, more like…” Harry muttered. “Would you stop winding that damn thing? Keeps me awake.” 

Kreacher bowed, almost falling off the chair again. “Of course, of course, whatever the master wishes.” 

This was at least the tenth time they’d had this conversation; Harry was certain his words would be disregarded, yet again. He couldn’t really begrudge Kreacher his habits, he supposed. After this many years, he was set in his ways. 

“Would you stop calling me ‘master,’ at least?” Harry said, for at least the hundredth time. “You’re free, remember?” 

Kreacher’s expression twisted into one of distaste. “Kreacher belongs to the House of Black. The House of Black belongs to... _Mr. Potter.”_ Kreacher’s tone couldn’t have possibly held more disdain. He began muttering to himself, voice perfectly audible in the silent hallway. “ _Free._ The boy thinks he can insult this house in such a way, if the mistress were here to see it, she would weep, the way he keeps the estate--” 

“I’ll go back to ‘keeping the estate,’ then,” Harry said, hoisting the empty bottle in his hand. “Enjoy my booze, you old creep.” 

“Kreacher sincerely hopes the master will enjoy his evening,” Kreacher croaked, and then went back to winding the clock. “Mocks his responsibilities, drinks like a fish, smells worse, at least the filthy blood traitor opened a window every now and again...” 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to tune out Kreacher’s continuous muttering and already feeling the promise of next morning’s hangover. He turned with a sigh and took the stairs down to the kitchen. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well get drunker. 

The fire was dying to embers, and Harry had just added another log to it with a muttered spell to be sure it lighted, when he heard a creak from the stairs. 

He craned his neck to look back, unable to spot anything in the dark. “Kreacher?” 

“Even less agreeable company, I’m afraid,” came the answer. Draco stepped into the doorway. 

“Oh, it’s you.” Harry took a breath to calm himself. He was jumpy tonight. “Can’t sleep?” he guessed. 

“Seems not.” Draco stepped further into the room, but didn’t approach Harry. “Mind if I join you?”

Harry shook his head. “Of course not.” 

Draco hesitated a moment, and then walked over to drop to a seat on the floor, still a careful distance from Harry. He was sitting with his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. Harry could see hollow, grey smudges beneath Draco’s eyes in the firelight. 

“Can’t sleep either,” Harry mumbled. “What is it that’s keeping you up?”

Draco opened his mouth, and shut it again. “Nightmares,” he admitted finally. 

Harry wordlessly passed him the bottle. 

Draco accepted it immediately, fingers shaking harder than usual, and took a drink. 

“I get them, too,” Harry said. 

Draco took a long, deep breath and released it, raising the bottle to his lips again. 

“What do you dream about?” Harry asked.

Draco held the bottle up in the glow from the fire, regarding it as it caught the light, head tilted. His eyes were narrowed, shoulders sagging. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet. “Things that happened, but they’re...different. Things that never happened, but the feeling’s the same. Always wake up with the same taste in my mouth, like…” He trailed off, took another drink, swallowed, hard. 

Harry winced. “Like you drank poison?” That was how the nightmares made him feel, like there was something inexplicably bitter in the back of his throat, a wretched, choked feeling, making him weak in the knees and hollow, right between his lungs. 

“Yeah.” Draco handed the bottle back. 

Harry accepted it but didn’t drink, cradling the cold glass in his palm. “I can’t imagine how bad the nightmares must get, after Azkaban.” 

Draco chuckled mirthlessly, but his voice was a little thick when he spoke. “At least they’re just nightmares, and not the real thing.” 

“Still hurts,” Harry muttered. “When you start realizing all the marks life’s left on you.” He looked back at Draco, after a moment, and was surprised to find Draco staring straight back at him. 

“What about you?” Draco asked softly. “What do you dream about?” 

Harry looked at the fire, watching the flames spread over the fresh log. “Dementors. Snakes. Godric’s Hollow—where my parents lived, in the snow. Hogwarts, but it’s empty. A...a graveyard.” He shivered, remembering that night, the ghosts of his mother and father, Cedric’s corpse, Voldemort’s shrivelled body. He ran a hand over the scar on his forehead. “I used to dream about Voldemort, about what he saw, what he felt. Sometimes the nightmares are...sort of like that.” 

“You used to dream from... _Voldemort’s_ perspective?” Draco’s voice had dropped even lower, almost a whisper. 

“Yeah. Eventually, it started happening while I was awake.” Harry smiled ruefully, looking back at Draco. “Never was very good at Occlumency.” 

Draco’s face was pale in the firelight, his eyes wide. “That’s...that must have been…” He looked away, shut his eyes. “I can’t imagine being in his head.” 

Harry shrugged. “It was useful, sometimes. Except when it wasn’t.” He thought of Sirius, and let his tense shoulders slouch, leaning back against the couch. 

“I’m sorry, Potter.” 

Harry took another drink, passed the bottle back to Draco. “It is what it is.” 

Draco accepted it with a bitter smirk. “It sure is.” 

They sat there in silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth. Eventually, Harry sat forward to put another log on the fire. Draco flinched, with a small, gasping intake of breath. 

Harry froze, staring at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...sorry.” Draco had seemed more comfortable, even allowing Harry to raise a wand at him today. Harry hadn’t seen him flinch that badly in awhile.

Draco shook his head, dropped it into his hands. “It’s not you. Like I said, you’ve been...absurdly nice.” 

“What is it, then?” Harry asked quietly.

“Just me being pathetic, ignore me, please,” Draco replied, his tone forcedly casual with that familiar grate of self-disgust beneath it. 

Harry was tired of hearing it. “You could try being nice to yourself, you know. Just once.” 

Draco rubbed his hands over his face, threaded his fingers through his hair, still staring down. “I don’t need a lecture, Potter.” 

“Well, you’re getting one. It doesn’t help, roughing yourself up in your head, so you’re ready the next time someone decides to have a go at you. It doesn’t work like that. Trust me, I’ve tried it.” 

Draco was silent for a long moment, staring at the floor. When he spoke, he sounded choked up. “Maybe—Maybe it doesn’t matter, if it helps.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s what I deserve, anyway.” 

Harry huffed a sigh of frustration. “Stop saying you _deserve_ to be treated like garbage. Even if you did deserve everything that happened to you, it’s pointless, anyway. It’s not going to change anything, and it’s never going to make you a better person. It’s never going to make the world less of a hellhole.” 

Draco pressed his hands against his eyes. “I know that. I know I don’t even deserve to feel guilty, I know I’ll never change any of it, no matter how much I suffer, I don’t need you to tell me.” 

Harry bit his lip. He’d anticipated anger, not...whatever this was. Draco sounded as if he were close to tears. “Draco…” 

Draco was silent. He dropped his hands from his face; a tear escaped from his lashes and rolled down his cheek. He wiped his eyes, swore. “I don’t even have a right to cry. I’m not the one who got hurt.”

“You really...don’t have to _earn_ the right to cry, you know. It just happens.” 

Draco shook his head. More of his tears fell; he wiped them away roughly with the back of his hand. 

“And anyway, you did get hurt. From what you’ve told me, you went through hell.” 

“Can’t you just believe me when I say I deserved it?” 

Harry shifted closer to him on the floor. “I believe that you believe it. Doesn’t make it true.” 

Draco was crying harder now, staring at the fire. He let the tears roll down his face, his hands in his lap. 

Harry watched him, wishing he could do something. He’d always been rubbish at knowing what to say, and he didn’t think Draco wanted to hear any of it at the moment, anyway. But still, Harry couldn’t just sit there and watch him cry. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, and rested it on Draco’s shoulder, waiting for Draco to pull away. He didn’t. Eventually, ever so slowly, he leaned against it. 

They stayed like that, for a long time. Harry rubbed his thumb over Draco’s shoulder, gently. Draco’s tears began to slow. He wiped his nose with his fist, sniffed. He turned, and looked at Harry’s hand, still on his shoulder, and then up at Harry. 

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely.

Harry dropped the hand. “Don’t, uh, don’t mention it.” 

“It’s been a long time since someone’s…” Draco trailed off, rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Thanks,” he muttered. 

Harry rose and took the stairs to the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water, and handed it over to Draco. 

Draco accepted it, his fingers steadier now. “Thanks,” he muttered, again, and drained the glass. 

“Don’t mention it,” Harry repeated, and dropped to the floor beside him.

They sat there, watching the fire until it settled into glowing embers, and cold blue light began to steal in through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I just want them to hug already, but it’s still a little too early, lol.  
> And a Kreacher cameo! He’s way too much fun to write.  
> I’ve just been kind of writing what I feel like, and sort of letting the story write itself, but there will be more Harry angst soon. He’s messed up too, but he’s been repressing/ignoring his trauma for a while whereas Draco’s is still fresh. It’s gonna take some digging for him to start opening up, and letting his friends in and all.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading, please tell me what you thought? Love you all <3


	20. In which Draco attempts to take a bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So bafflinghaze reminded me on the last chapter that Crabbe died, which I'd forgotten in the moment of writing it. RIP Crabbe (pours butterbeer out on the floor) I feel guilty for smack talking him in the last chapter now, but he was kind of a huge asshole. 
> 
> Anyway, so so sorry about the wait y'all, I've fallen down a depression hole and I'm still not quite out of it. I didn't really have it in me to even do my dishes for week and a half, let alone be creative. But writing this was nice, I'm going to try and write some more. Already have the next chapter planned. Anyway, hope you enjoy this one, it's mostly angst. Hopefully it doesn't suck, my brain still ain't functioning too great.

The rain had stopped at some point during the night, leaving smudged, dreary clouds hanging in the sky. Potter had made them toast and coffee, again, and now Draco was staring down into his nearly-empty mug, leaning back against the couch. He remembered the comforting hand Potter had extended last night, the ghost of the touch still lingering on his shoulder. Part of him was grateful, and most of him was resolutely disgusted that he’d opened up that much, that he’d allowed Potter to comfort him. 

Draco pressed his hand to his mouth, breathing carefully. His stomach was still churning from last night, and the coffee hadn’t helped to settle it. He could still sense the flashes of memory tugging at the back of his mind. Dementors and Aurors had haunted his dreams last night, and he could almost feel their fingers around his throat. The warmth of a kind touch had erased them, for a moment, but now they were back. He felt his eyes stinging again. Hadn’t he spent all his tears already? 

“What’s on your mind?” Potter asked, through a mouthful of toast. 

Draco blinked back his tears, swallowed hard, wishing his stomach would steady. “Nothing.” He didn’t feel like letting Potter in, not again. And anyway, it would just make Potter pity him more, and Draco knew he didn’t deserve it.

“Alright,” Potter said, with a small sigh. 

“Think I’ll head upstairs actually, take a bath.” In all honesty, he just wanted to be alone. 

“Okay.” Potter took another bite of toast. “Try not to drown.” 

Draco gave him a disparaging look as he rose, and headed for the stairs. He climbed them slowly, his limbs feeling heavy. He clutched the banister with one hand, and scrubbed the other over his face, trying to wipe away his thoughts. Sharp, minute details were stuck in his brain like shards of glass, the sickly, fetid smell of Azkaban, the wood grain of the table in Malfoy Manor’s dining room, the sound of hazy, echoing screams, the twisted features of dying faces. He felt a sob rising in his chest, and swallowed it. _Try not to drown,_ indeed. 

Draco was standing in the bathroom, listening to the tub fill, wishing the sound would cover the noise in his head. 

He was still wearing the “I speak fluent sarcasm” shirt, and it made a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He pulled the shirt off, and his smile faded, the cloth dropping from his fingers to the floor. He leaned against the sink, staring at the inverted letters carved into his chest in the mirror. 

The day before he’d left Azkaban found its way into the forefront of his mind. He remembered his aching wrists chained to the wall above him, remembered the door of his cell opening, the sinking feeling in his stomach as he recognized Corbyn. 

_“They finally tracked down the famous Chosen One. Hard man to reach, apparently. Self-important little git, if you ask me. Anyway, he picked you, out of the whole lot.”_ Corbyn’s voice had been sneering, as usual, and Draco felt as if he could hear it, even now. He remembered the feeling of dread twisting his guts at that statement--at the time, he’d figured it was close to the worst case scenario, having Harry Potter hold his contract.

_“Figured you’d be happy. Could be a lot worse. There’s still some on your side who want you dead, you know.”_ Corbyn had cocked his head to the side, like a crow regarding a dead mouse. _“You two must have gone to school together, hm? Maybe he’ll take it easy on you.”_

When Draco had shaken his head, Corbyn had laughed unkindly and stepped closer, those black eyes seeming to stab Draco with their gaze. _“Weren’t too fond of each other, then? Good.”_ He’d leaned down closer to whisper in Draco’s ear. Draco felt a shiver run down his spine, at the memory. _“Whatever he decides to do with you, I hope he reminds you every day what a piece of filth you really are, Death Eater. Because I don’t want you to ever forget it.”_

And then he’d pinned Draco to the wall by his shoulder, so he couldn’t squirm, and carved the letters into him. _D. E._ Death Eater. 

Draco stared at the marks in the mirror, at the faded Dark Mark scar on his arm. He remembered Corbyn’s next words, and his stomach twisted again. 

_“But you’re probably proud of that, aren’t you, Death Eater?”_ And Corbyn had leaned back down, ignoring the cries of pain escaping from Draco’s clenched teeth, and carved a word. _Filth._

Draco ran a finger over the cuts. They’d scabbed over, but whatever curse Corbyn had used prevented them from fully healing. They were swollen, the edges of them a sickly yellow. They looked almost infected, and some part of Draco knew they’d scar, no matter how they were healed. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe Corbyn was right, and they were a good reminder of what he was. 

He felt his stomach clench, again, and threw up in the sink, the acidic smell of coffee and bile stinging his nose. 

He sank to the floor, eyes watering, teeth clenched. There was a sob rising in his throat; he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to quiet himself. “I’m not proud,” he whispered, to the empty room. He knew what he had done. He didn’t need a reminder. It would never leave him alone. He let go, let the guilt swallow him, his whole body shaking. He was sobbing, he realized distantly, feeling as if he were watching himself cry dispassionately, rather than doing it himself. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, until there was a knock on the bathroom door. 

“Draco?” It was Potter’s voice. 

Draco startled, hard, and raised his head. The tub was overflowing, water beginning to touch his toes. He couldn’t summon a response. 

“I’m coming in, unless you say something,” Potter said, through the door. 

Draco didn’t have anything to say. He drew his knees up to his chest, folded his arms around them. He didn’t even care if Potter found him like this. He didn’t have it in him, to keep his guard up. 

After a few moments, the doorknob turned, and Potter’s face peaked through the crack, green eyes crinkled in concern. When they fell on Draco, they widened, and Potter pushed the door open and stepped through. He ignored the water spilling from the tub, dropping to his knees in the puddle in front of Draco. 

Draco couldn’t meet his eyes. He lowered his empty stare to the floor. 

Potter extended a hand, and laid in on top of Draco’s. “What happened?” 

Draco shook his head, pulling his hand away. Potter’s own hand flew to his mouth in shock. Draco realized belatedly that he’d uncovered the top of the marks on his chest. He dropped his knees, folded his legs, let Potter see the rest. He didn’t even care what Potter said about it, at this point. He’d been alone with his guilt for too long. And if Potter wanted to berate him for what he was, Draco couldn’t help but feel he had it coming. 

Potter swore quietly. Draco summoned his courage and met Potter’s eyes. 

Potter didn’t look accusing, at least, he looked unsettled, thoughtful. “Corbyn?” he asked. 

Draco nodded. “I’m not proud,” he whispered. “I’m not proud of what I did, I swear.”

“I know that. And I’m going to keep telling you, you didn’t deserve this, until you believe it.” 

Harry’s quiet voice was only one of many, swirling inside Draco’s head, and it was lost like a drop in an ocean, slipping through Draco’s fingers as he tried to hold onto it. 

“I hurt people. I watched people get hurt. How can you not hate me for that?” 

Harry wet his lips, took a slow, careful breath. “I hated you in school. Because you always seemed like you enjoyed putting other people down, making them miserable. But when you became a Death Eater, that was the first time I started to feel something _besides_ hatred. I felt bad for you, Draco. You looked trapped, and—and terrified. You looked like you were dying inside.” Harry paused, seemingly waiting for a response, and then finally spoke again. “Bullies come from everywhere. And they can join any side. And that’s what you were, Draco. A bully. But you’re a lot more than that too. And you were just a damn kid.” Harry huffed in disgust. “This Corbyn guy, he’s the one who should be ashamed of himself. He’s a grown man, and he’s still just a bully.” 

Draco shook his head. “He has a right to be furious with me. I--I watched his wife, suffering horribly, watched her _die._ My family were the ones who did it. _”_ More words were bubbling up in his throat, the thoughts and memories pressed down for too long. “I still dream about them, the victims. The screaming, the begging, the flashes of green light, and then...just...nothing. It’s awful, watching a person die. It’s like there’s this...this _snap_ , between life and death, and then they’re just...gone.” Draco felt another sob rising his chest, and swallowed thickly, trying to push it back down. “There’s a _...sickening..._ finality, to it. And every time, I knew there was nothing I could do, to bring them back.” 

Harry sighed, looking down at his wet knees. “You’re not a killer, Draco. I saw you, on the tower, with Dumbledore. Even though you thought you’d be killed, you weren’t going to kill him. You were lowering your wand.” 

Draco shook his head. “It tried to kill him from afar--I almost killed students. I let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I followed his orders, I took the mark. I _watched._ I should have _done_ something.” 

“Watching something awful happen, Draco...that’s not your fault.” 

“I should have done something.” 

“What could you have done? Honestly?” 

“Something.” Draco fisted his hands. “Something besides following orders. Besides being a coward, just letting it happen.” 

Potter ran a hand through his hair, turned the tub off with a wave of his wand. “It doesn’t matter what I tell you. You have to forgive yourself.” 

“I’ll never forgive myself.” 

“You’re just not ready. Give it some time.” 

Draco’s jaw clenched. He could feel anger coiling inside him, and even though he recognized it as a defense mechanism, he couldn’t stop it. He’d let Potter in too close, and now he felt the urge to push him away again. “Don’t patronize me. I told you before, I don’t want your pity.” 

“No, you want me to hate you,” Potter replied coolly. “You want me to scream and yell and hurt you, so you can hate me right back. I know that’s comfortable, but that’s not what you’re getting.” 

Draco wrapped his arms around himself again. Potter was right, as usual, all Draco wanted at the moment was to bury his emotions in a fight. The fact that Potter had seen through his defense, yet again, just made him angrier. “Just leave me alone, _Potter,”_ he said, spitting out the other man’s name the way he used to in school. 

Potter rose. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” 

“I told you, I can’t kill myself,” Draco replied, a bitter grate in his voice. 

“You can hurt yourself, though. Are you going to?” 

“Why the hell do you care?” 

Potter ignored the question. “It won’t help anything.” 

“Would you stop reminding me about that?”

Potter opened his mouth to speak. 

Draco rose. “Leave me _alone,”_ he gritted out, cutting Potter off. 

Potter looked away, at the water on the floor. “Fine,” he said heavily. “I’ll be...downstairs.” 

“Getting plastered, I assume.” 

Potter just gave him a deadpan stare in reply to Draco’s attempt at a cutting remark. “That’s the plan,” he said finally, and then turned for the door. 

Draco watched him leave, and then sank to the floor again, eyes stinging, dry sobs wracking his chest. He struggled to take a shaky breath, unable to cry. It seemed he’d finally spent his tears, leaving a hollow, aching emptiness behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we finally know what Corbyn did to Draco now, which I think some of you guessed, and Harry gets a closer look at Draco's guilt. And then...Draco gets overwhelmed and turns back to his old ways for a minute. Like everyone says, recovery ain't linear. 
> 
> It's my first time trying to write a full flashback, they're way harder than I expected. Hopefully it came off okay. I wanted to give a bigger peak into Draco's memories. 
> 
> It's been almost a decade since I've read the books, so if I start to go off canon a tiny bit, just do me a favor and ignore it, lol. It's the way I interpreted it when I read it, I guess, and if memory serves, Rowling leaves a lot open to interpretation, especially regarding Harry and Draco's relationship and Draco's feelings. 
> 
> Okay, well I hope you enjoyed, please please leave me a comment, they brighten my day so much <3 If I ever don't reply to them, it's just cause I don't want to be annoying, but I read every one, and they give me the inspiration to keep writing. Love you all <3<3<3


	21. In which Harry asks for advice, and gets more than he bargained for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for all the kind comments on the last one! it means so much to me that people are still enjoying this fic.  
> Some people were worried I was forcing myself to write, I'm not! I'm still really enjoying writing this. Thank you to everyone who was concerned about my mental health on the last chapter, you guys are all so sweet. I'm still in the depression hole *waves hello from the bottom* but I'm upping my meds and I'm going to keep fighting, as always. I've had depression since I was a kid and I'm pretty good at dealing with it by now. Updates are probably going to be slower for a while though, sorry about that. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter finally has more Ron! He is so. hard. to. write. Idk why, he just is. I enjoy the challenge though. Hopefully I did okay <3

Harry took the stairs down to the kitchen slowly, feeling gutted. He knew it had to be worse for Draco, but seeing what had happened to him firsthand, hearing yet again how much he hated himself, watching him break down like that--it turned Harry’s stomach. He reached for a bottle, uncorked it against the counter, and raised it halfway to his lips before something caught his eye. He set the bottle down. 

The picture he’d taken of Draco two nights ago was still sitting on the counter. Harry reached down and picked it up, inspecting it. He’d used a wizard camera to take it, and the tiny Draco Malfoy in the picture was staring down at his shirt in disdain. When he caught Harry observing him, he raised his middle finger with a familiar smirk. He lifted the finger to his lips and blew Harry a sarcastic kiss with it. 

Harry set the photo down, feeling a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Tomorrow morning marked a week that Draco had been at the House of Black, and Harry was already more fond of him than he’d like to admit. Staring down at the photo, that strange feeling of responsibility came back with full force. Draco needed professional help, he needed family, or friends, or _someone,_ but at this moment, all he had was Harry. 

Harry knew what it felt like, to be alone in the world, to truly believe no one cared about your well-being. He remembered how happy he’d been to finally meet Hagrid. What had Hagrid _done,_ exactly? He struggled to remember. He’d just...been Hagrid. 

Harry had no idea what to do for Draco to make him feel any better, let alone what to say. No matter how stubbornly Harry tried, he couldn’t seem to change Draco’s mind about himself. Harry supposed it would take time, but still… 

He could tell Draco was in his own hand-made hell inside his head. And every time Harry tried to comfort him, or give him advice, he felt like he was stumbling around, struggling to perform brain surgery in the dark. 

Harry corked the liquor reluctantly and cracked his knuckles, staring down at his hands. It was time to admit he was out of his depth. 

Harry looked up at the legs of the desk in Hermione’s office. It had taken him a minute to work up the nerve to give her a floo call, and even now he was considering hanging up before she noticed him. 

But just then, Hermione came into view, a steaming mug in her hand. She almost dropped it when she saw Harry’s head in her fireplace. 

“Sorry, had to talk to you,” Harry said hurriedly. “Not a bad time, is it?”

Hermione set the cup down on the table with a steadying sigh. “It’s fine, Harry. What did you want to talk about?” 

Harry ran his hand through his hair. “I need advice. About Draco.” 

“Did anything happen?” Hermione asked, raising a concerned eyebrow. 

Harry winced. “He’s just feeling...really down on himself, and I don’t know how to help.”

“I’m not a therapist, Harry.” 

“I know that, I just...you always know what to say.” 

“I suspect there’s nothing you can say, after everything.” Hermione took a sip of coffee. She looked exhausted, dark bags under her eyes, robes a little crumpled. Her braids were beginning to get a little grown out, Harry noticed, sagging around her face. He guessed she hadn’t had a day to devote to herself in a while, let alone her hair. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asked. 

She shrugged. “I’m fine, just been spending a lot of time researching lately. I’m trying to build a solid case.” 

“You’re taking care of yourself though, right?” Harry said. He knew how Hermione could get when she was focused on something. “When was the last time you ate?”

Hermione gave him a fond smile. “When was the last time you showered?” 

Harry looked away. “Touché.” 

“So, what’s the matter with Draco?” 

“He’s...he’s just feeling awful, and…” Harry struggled to find the words, not wanting to reveal too much without Draco’s permission. “The Aurors, in Azkaban, they did some really awful things to him. And whatever bad ideas he had about himself, between the Aurors and the Dementors, they’re a hundred times worse now, and I just...I have no idea what to do.” 

Hermione wrapped her hands around her mug. “Just be his friend, Harry. You’ve always been good at that.” She held up a hand when Harry tried to retort that he _hadn’t_ been so good at it, lately. “Always,” she repeated.

Harry bit his lip. “Cheers, Hermione, but...I’m a little out of my depth.”

“You can’t take someone’s pain away for them, Harry. All you can do is help them deal with it. Think about what works for you, when you’re feeling...bad, lost in your head.”

Harry wracked his brain for a moment. All he could think of was drinking. 

Hermione screwed up her face in thought, regarding him over the rim of her mug. “You know, Harry, I still have a long way to go with my case. Maybe you ought to give Ron a call.”

Harry snorted softly. “You just want me to talk to him, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I do.” Hermione’s voice had turned slightly officious, the way it did when she’d made up her mind about something. “He could use a call from you. And I really _am_ busy.” 

Harry bit his lip. “Not sure Ron’s the best to talk to about...emotions. Especially Draco Malfoy’s.” 

The corner of Hermione’s mouth turned up. “He’s more sensitive than he lets on.” 

“Hermione…” 

“Call Ron,” Hermione said, pulling her wand from her robes. “He’s at the burrow, it’s his day off.” She gave Harry another smile. “Take care of yourself. And take a damn shower.” She ended the call with a wave of her wand. 

Harry sat back on his heels in his living room. He’d forgotten how merciless Hermione could be, when she was giving advice. He rubbed his sweaty palms together. _Call Ron._ It should be easy, calling his best mate. But when had Harry’s life ever been uncomplicated? _Just call your former best mate you ignored for years who’s probably furious, and ask for advice about comforting your mutual enemy who’s now your friend about the crimes he committed during the wizard war. Simple._

Harry really didn’t know what to expect from Ron. He’d been mostly jokes, on their floo call before, but Harry knew how adept he was at hiding his feelings behind his sense of humor. Harry didn’t feel he had a right to call Ron at all, especially to ask about this. Still, if Hermione wanted Harry to call him that badly… She knew Ron far better than he did, these days. And Harry knew he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t. 

He took a shaky breath, cracked his knuckles, and threw powder into the fire, watching the flames shift to emerald. “The Burrow,” he said, leaning forward. 

When Harry’s vision stopped swirling, he made out Ron, sitting on the couch with a can of Budweiser in his hand. 

Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry, and then his face split into a grin. “Hey, you git,” he said, raising the can at Harry. 

“You drink muggle beer now?” Harry asked, not wanting to talk about anything more serious. 

Ron looked down at the can in his hand, and shrugged. “Dad confiscated a bunch of it, along with a lot of other Muggle stuff. Think some of it’s cursed, honestly, but the beer’s fine.” 

Harry chuckled softly, remembering Mr. Weasley’s fondness for Muggle memorabilia. “It’s noon,” he said. 

“It’s my day off.” Ron shrugged. “Besides, look who’s talking.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Not you too,” he muttered. Did everyone who knew him assume he had a drinking problem? 

“So,” Ron continued, his voice slightly strained,“What made the Savior of the Wizarding World decide to give little old me a call?” 

Harry felt the familiar stab of guilt he always got when he thought about Ron. “I’m sorry, Ron, I...I owe you an apology. Like, a thousand apologies.” 

“I’ll just take the one,” Ron replied. He stood and stepped forward, dropping to a seat on the floor in front of the fire. “It’s fine, Harry. Now stop looking so guilty.” 

“It’s not fine,” Harry retorted, shaking his head. “I never meant to hurt you, or Hermione. I swear, I just…” 

“You just figure everyone’s better off without you,” Ron finished, cutting him off.

Harry wet his lips. “Um, I guess…”

“That’s what Malfoy thinks.” Ron was wearing a sly smile.

“Malfoy said that about me?” Harry felt his eyes widening, trying to imagine that.

“Yeah, he was real concerned.” Ron chuckled. “Maybe he’s already fallen in love.” 

Harry snorted. “I highly doubt it.” 

Ron chuckled some more, and then his smile faded into something almost sad. “He did seem concerned though, honestly. It was...weird.”

The reason he’d called Ron in the first place was weighing on Harry’s mind now. “I wanted to talk to you about him, actually--well, I wanted to talk to Hermione, but she told me to call you, so--” 

“So _that’s_ why you called me,” Ron said, pointing a finger at Harry in mock accusation. “I should have known.” 

“Hermione can be very persuasive when she wants to be.” 

“She ended the call on you, didn’t she?” Ron smiled fondly at Harry’s nod. “That sounds like my wife.” 

Harry’s smile was crooked. “She looked like she was working herself half to death.” 

Ron sighed. “That sounds like my wife, too.” He turned to the side, craning his neck to check the clock. “Was just about to bring her lunch, actually. You know how she gets when she’s working on something.” 

“That’s good,” Harry said. “She’d probably live off of coffee for days, without you.” 

Ron nodded. “I know better than to get in her way, though.” 

They smiled about that for a moment, and then settled into an awkward silence. 

Ron seemed like he was in a good mood, maybe asking for advice about Malfoy _was_ worth a shot. Ron could be emotionally...well, incompetent at times, but he wasn’t an idiot. If he deigned to give advice on the subject, it would probably be worth hearing. Harry opened and shut his mouth, unsure how to begin.

It was Ron who finally broke the silence. “So, you...wanted to talk to me about Malfoy?” he asked incredulously. 

“Uh, yeah.” Harry ran his fingers through the back of his hair, tugging on it. “He’s just...really depressed, and…” Harry trailed off, faltering. 

“Probably has a killer case of PTSD, after Azkaban,” Ron said. He raised his beer sarcastically. “I’ll drink to that,” he muttered, taking a long drink. 

“It’s like he blames himself for...everything. Like every single thing Voldemort did was his own personal fault.” Harry dropped his head into his hands. “Sorry to bother you with this, I doubt you care, but Hermione seemed to think you’d have advice, and...well, if you do, I’m sure it’s worth hearing,” he finished, staring at the Burrow’s stained, well-worn carpet. 

Ron was silent for a while. “You know what else Malfoy said?” 

Harry looked up at him carefully, raised an eyebrow. 

“He said you’re a good man.” 

Harry blinked. “You’re messing with me.” 

“He was right, for once. You’re the kind of guy to care about anybody who’s hurting, even if they’re your worst enemy.” Ron scratched the back of his neck, staring at the label on the can in his hand. “Can’t believe I’m about to say something this cheesy, but...ah, hell, if you care, Harry, I care too.”

“Really?” Harry asked. 

“Yeah, I mean...you’re still my best mate, you know.” 

Harry stared back at him, feeling his eyes prickling a little. 

“If it’s got you messed up, then I’ll give you my advice. Can’t promise it’ll be good, necessarily, but…” Ron shrugged, took a sip of beer. 

Harry looked at him fondly for a long moment. “Thanks,” he choked out, and swallowed. “Um...well, what would you say, then? To...to someone who...who hates themself?”

“What have you said?” 

“I just...I told him he didn’t deserve everything that happened to him. That he was trapped in a bad situation, wasn’t necessarily an evil person--”

“He wasn’t a great guy, either--” 

“He didn’t deserve to be tortured,” Harry retorted, the vicious cuts on Draco burned into his brain. “If you knew the stuff they did to him…”

Ron sighed heavily. “No. Reckon he didn’t. But guilt is a healthy reaction, you know, after everything he did.” 

Harry shook his head. “Whatever Draco’s feeling, it’s sure as hell not healthy.” 

“Well, If I learned anything in therapy--”

“You went to _therapy?”_ Harry asked, shocked. 

Ron blushed. “Hermione dragged me, okay?” 

“No, I mean--I’m glad. That’s good. Did it, ya know, help?” 

“I was messed up, after the war.” Ron studied the can again. “I was _real_ messed up, after we...lost ya. I probably couldn’t have gotten much worse. So yeah. It helped.” He looked up finally, giving Harry a cheeky grin. “You oughta try it yourself.” 

Harry swallowed his guilt, along with the fear that curled in his stomach, thinking about talking to someone about his problems. “We’re not talking about me, remember?” 

Ron regarded him for a long moment, before finally relenting. “Fine. _Malfoy._ Anyway, if there’s one thing I learned in therapy, it’s that the first step is learning how to handle all the icky stuff without letting it hurt you. ‘S called coping. My point is, when Malfoy’s already feeling like the worst person in the whole damn world, that’s probably not the best time to go digging through the past. Especially since, like you said, he doesn’t know how to do it...well, healthy.” Ron finished off the beer, set the can on the ground beside him. “If you’re asking me--which I guess you are--he could use some professional help, too. But until then, just...you know, do what you do best. Be his friend. Help him cope.” 

Harry picked his brain, recalling all the messy conversations he’d had with Draco. “I’ve been trying, but...I don’t think anything I say helps. He doesn’t want to hear any of it. Half the time he just gets angry, and I guess I can’t blame him.”

Ron shifted his weight on the floor, his eyes far away in thought. “I reckon...I reckon Malfoy sees the world a whole different way from how you do. He’s a Slytherin, Harry. You come busting in, wand blazing, with your righteous Gryffindor forgiveness routine...he’s never going to accept it.” 

“So what _should_ I do, then? Tell him he deserved it?” 

“No, just...follow his logic a little. Meet him halfway.”

Harry considered, thinking about the dark way Malfoy seemed to see the world. _Life's a game. And even I can see I've lost, in every way possible._

“And you know, anything can become comfortable, if you sit with it long enough." Ron's voice had dropped a little lower, sounding uncharacteristically serious. "I doubt Malfoy even wants to part with his guilt.” 

“That’s sure what it seems like. Like he's gotten used to be treated...so awfully, and now I don't think he even wants to change. He definitely doesn't want to accept my help.” Harry shook his head. “You should have seen him though, today...I can’t imagine the way he feels being... _comfortable."_

“Well, you seem pretty comfortable pushing all your friends away and drowning your problems in a bottle.” 

Harry looked up at his friend. He caught a bitter glint in Ron’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Harry said, feeling hollow. 

Ron swallowed, hard. “I’m not trying to beat you up over it, I’m just saying, you know the feeling.”

“No, let’s talk about it." Harry took a deep, steadying breath. If Ron was angry with him, Harry didn't want him to go on hiding it. "Like I said, I’ll apologize as many times as you want me to, I know I--”

“I don’t want you to apologize. I want you to…” Ron trailed off, wringing his hands, staring down at them. “You’re one of the bravest people I know, Harry. Whatever’s lurking in the back of your head, you can fight it.” 

Harry felt his eyes prickling again. Fighting sounded...exhausting. Hadn't he done enough of it, for one lifetime? He blinked, trying to get his eyes to stop stinging. “I don’t feel brave,” he said, quietly. “I just feel tired.” 

“Staying in the house all day, drinking all the time, none of that helps.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know that.”

“But you don’t care, do you?” 

Harry’s eyes were stinging harder. “I’m sorry I let you all down,” he said, bitterly. 

“I feel like I let _you_ down. Like I should have tried harder, been a better friend. But I guess you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.” 

“No,” Harry snapped, “I guess you can’t.” 

Ron glared at him, looked away, picked up the can beside him and twisted it, crushing it in his fingers. “We’ve been through so much... _shit,_ Harry. And we got through it all together. So stop trying to do this alone.” 

Harry’s jaw was clenched. This was not what he’d wanted to talk about, not today, when he already felt all shaken up inside. “The war’s over. The world doesn’t need me. What does it matter, anymore?” 

“It matters to me,” Ron said, his voice raising. “I want my friend back. I miss you, you... _bastard.”_

Harry felt tears gathering in the corners of his eyes for the first time in a long, long while. “I’m sorry. I just...I don’t feel like me. Whoever you want back, maybe...maybe he's not around anymore."

Ron looked at him. His eyes were miserable, angry, fond, worried, a hundred emotions at once. Harry couldn’t meet them. He looked away. He couldn’t do this. A tear escaped from his eyes and ran down his face. 

“Thanks for the advice, mate,” Harry said, his voice shaking. 

“Harry…”

Whatever Ron was going to say next, Harry didn’t think he could bear to hear it. He leaned back out of the fire, rose in his own living room, dizzy and swaying on his feet. He extinguished the fire with a wave of his wand, and took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time. 

He didn’t feel like himself. He didn’t feel like anyone. He certainly didn’t feel like Harry Potter. And he was going to drink until he forgot that damn name, forgot he was the Savior of the Wizarding World. Until he felt numb again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry about the downer ending. As promised though, we're finally getting deeper into the Harry angst.  
> Thanks for reading, and as always, please tell me what you thought!


	22. In which Draco relates to an old enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are probably tired of hearing me say this, but sorry for the wait. I think I'm finally out of my depression hole though, so hopefully I'll have the next one up sooner.

Draco took a long, shaky breath. The tiles were still covered in water, and his bare toes were freezing in the puddle. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting here, just struggling to breathe, trying to steady himself. 

He curled his legs up to his chest and dropped his head against his knees. He tried to ground himself, to remind his addled brain where he was. He wasn’t in his cell, this wasn’t Azkaban, he was in the House of Black--Potter’s house. Potter’s custody. 

When had that thought started making him feel safe? 

When the program had begun, and Draco had first heard about it, he’d seen it as a way to escape Azkaban--and he’d have taken any way out offered to him. For a moment, he’d allowed himself to hope. No one was fond of his family, on either side of the war, but he’d prayed that whoever he ended up with would simply treat him as a servant--and if they did decide to hurt him, they’d get bored of it eventually. But knowing Harry Potter was the one who would hold his contract, any hope he’d allowed to grow had withered, leaving nothing but dread and self-loathing behind. Considering how far back their rivalry went, Draco hadn’t expected Potter to  _ ever _ get bored of making his life miserable. 

Draco raised his head, and glanced down at the cuts on his chest. 

He’d fully expected Corbyn’s wishes would come true, that Potter would remind him exactly what he was, every minute of every day. Potter undeniably knew him better than Corbyn did, but Draco had figured that as a bad thing. 

Draco pushed himself off the floor, swayed on his feet, and gripped the sink, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. 

Potter was insightful, for a Gryffindor. And Draco had shown an embarrassing amount of weakness, for a Slytherin. Potter knew him, knew him better than Draco would like to admit. Potter had seen his pride, when Draco had first been tasked by Voldemort. Potter had seen his fear, his weakness, at Malfoy Manor. Potter didn’t hate him for it, didn’t think he deserved...all this. 

Draco stared at the ugly wounds, trying to see them as something awful that had been done to him, rather than as a brand of what he was. To see them as an indicator of Corbyn’s character, rather than his own. He couldn’t quite manage it. 

He turned away from the mirror, tired of seeing the accusation in his own eyes, wishing his thoughts would leave him alone, for once. He stepped back into the bedroom, and pulled Potter’s jumper from the bed, tugging it on over his head. He wrapped his arms around himself, reminded of when he’d first gotten here, how terrified he’d been, trying to steel himself for the worst through a haze of exhaustion and pain. Potter giving him clothes to wear had been the first genuinely kind thing someone had done for him in years. It had calmed him, just the slightest bit. It was such a genuine act, there could be no ulterior motive to it, as far as Draco could tell. It had made him feel just a little bit safer, kept him from completely losing it. He felt a twinge of guilt over how he’d spoken to Potter in the bathroom. He’d thought he’d moved past that, past lashing out at Potter to make up for letting him in. 

If Draco had been able to imagine Potter being nice to him, he would have at least imagined Potter having a holier-than-thou attitude about it, reminding Draco that he was still a Death Eater, that he didn’t deserve anything Potter gave him. But Potter hadn’t been condescending. It wasn’t pity, it was something else...empathy? Whatever it was, it was probably better than Draco deserved. Maybe that was why Draco couldn’t help but to keep rejecting it.

He fell onto the bed with a heavy sigh, his thoughts chasing each other in circles inside his skull. He needed some sleep. 

There was a Dementor, crouched over him, sucking his soul from his body with the pain of ripped stitches. Draco’s breath was shuddering in his chest, his heart hammering, a scream dying on his lips. Blackness. He was waking up, to the blinding light of a wand, to Reynolds tossing a tray of food straight at his face,  _ Death Eater scum-- _ his face morphed into Harry’s, the eyes piercing, accusing, his lip curled in a snarl of disdain, his arms crossed, and then raised. A wand pointed at him, blinding light, a flash of color, searing, spreading pain--

Draco jolted upright, panting. He was soaked in sweat, the covers twisted around him like a straitjacket. He pushed them off of himself with desperate, clawing fingers, rolling out of the bed and onto the floor. He pressed a shaky hand against his mouth, feeling nausea rising in his throat.  _ Just a nightmare, just a nightmare.  _ He wasn’t in Azkaban, he was in the House of Black. He was safe, for the moment. 

Draco pulled the sleeves of the jumper down over his wrists and covered his face with his hands, taking a long, steadying breath. The jumper still had the same comforting scent, like coffee and cheap aftershave, and that same warm  _ something _ Draco hadn’t been able to put his finger on. He wondered if it was liquor, before realizing it was just Harry.  _ Potter, _ he reminded himself, dropping his hands from his face self-consciously. 

His thoughts wandered to Potter, wondering what he was up to. He was probably already drunk, Draco realized, with another flash of guilt. 

In a way, Draco had grown accustomed to Potter’s strangely calming company, started to feel its absence when Potter was gone. He was just lonely, Draco decided, and Potter was the only other person in the house. But nevertheless, Draco found his feet heading downstairs to find him.

He found Potter in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets. His eyes were puffy, as if he’d been crying, and there was a bottle in his hands, as usual. Draco felt even guiltier.  _ He  _ couldn’t be the reason Potter was crying, could he? He’d said some pretty awful things over the years, and he was fairly sure Potter had never cried over them. 

Draco stepped closer, and dropped to his knees beside Potter on the chilly tiles. Potter didn’t look at him. Draco hadn’t seen him like this before. He looked ready to sink through the floor and disappear. 

“Are you...are you okay?” Draco asked softly.

“What does it look like, Malfoy?” Potter muttered, and drank. 

Now Draco knew how Potter felt, trying to help him. “I’m sorry that I snapped at you, I shouldn’t have, um…” Draco faltered.

“It’s fine,” Potter said, his voice very quiet.

Draco was probably the last person Potter wanted to see right now, he realized. “Maybe you...ought to call one of your friends, or...” 

Potter sighed heavily. “I did.” 

“Oh.” Ron, or Hermione? Or someone else entirely? Draco rummaged through his exhausted brain, trying to come up with something to say. He wasn’t sure if he should ask; Potter didn’t look like he wanted to talk. And Draco had probably done enough damage, for one day. Instead, he took a seat on the floor in silence, his back against the cabinets beside Potter. 

To Draco’s utter shock, Potter leaned towards him, ever so slightly, until their shoulders grazed one another. They stayed like that for a long moment, Draco unable to believe this was happening. 

“How drunk are you?” Draco asked, trying to fathom why Potter was leaning against him, seemingly for comfort. 

Potter gave him a small, sad chuckle as a response. 

Draco bit his lip. He remembered his promise to himself, to try and be a good friend. Or to perform the closest approximation of friendship he could manage, anyway. And if whatever friend Potter had called had made him feel like this, and he wasn’t keen on calling any others, then...Draco was sort of all he had, at the moment. And he had to admit he owed it to Potter, to be there, after everything Potter had done. 

Draco took a deep, steadying breath, and leaned ever so slowly back, against Potter, until their shoulders were pressed together. It felt wrong, and strange, as if Draco were acting a part he had no business playing. But at the same time, part of him felt it was the only thing he could do. 

Potter held the bottle out to him; Draco shook his head. 

“So…” Draco began, clearing his throat and steadying his voice, “Who did you call?” 

Harry was silent for a while, then he spoke. “Ron.” 

“What made you call him? You seemed rather set on...not having much contact with him at all.” 

Potter shrugged. “Just wanted to talk about some stuff.” 

Draco wet his lips, reconsidering the bottle in Potter’s hand. This conversation would be so much easier if he were drunk. He decided he ought to rely on his intellect this time, instead. He was good at getting what he wanted out of people. Maybe that skill could apply to friendship, in a twisted way.

“I take it the conversation went in an unexpected direction?” Draco asked.

Potter snorted softly. “You could say that.” 

Draco considered. Ron was Potter’s best mate, had been for years. Potter had ignored him, also for years. Ron was, probably, rightfully ticked off. But considering how close Potter had been with his friends, and how highly he seemed to regard them, Draco doubted Ron would greet Potter with nothing but anger. He thought back to what he’d seen of Ron lately, his easy jokes on the floo call, his stifled concern on the doorstep. 

“Ron’s decent at hiding his feelings, it seems. That’s a double-edged sword, you know. You hide them for long enough, when they eventually come out…it’s like a wildfire.” 

“Sounds like someone I know,” Potter said, giving him the ghost of a smile. 

Draco glared at him for a moment, but it faded into a smirk. Potter was right. There had been a time when Draco was far more adept at hiding his feelings, but it seemed his time was up, and now they were exploding every other day. 

“You’re right. I’ve lost control of my emotions lately. But it must feel different, coming from someone...someone you’re close to.” 

“He didn’t even lose control of himself, exactly.” Potter swallowed. “He was just...honest.” 

“I take it you would have preferred a screaming match?” 

Potter scratched at the back of his hair. “Maybe. Ron and I have certainly had those, before. But I’ve never...done something like this.” 

“Well, you’re always telling me guilt is useless. Maybe you should take your own advice.” He was getting frustrated, Draco chided himself. That hadn’t been the right move. 

But then Potter surprised him. “You’re right. Regret doesn’t help, but…” He took a drink. “Moving on, looking to the future…” 

Draco held his breath, hoping they were finally getting to the heart of the matter. 

“I just...I don’t have it in me, I guess.” 

Draco could feel the emotion Potter was struggling to put into words. It was the same feeling that was sitting in the bottom of his stomach. That hollow, heavy feeling, that made him wake up worn out, made him feel like he’d never had any fight in him to begin with. Draco wanted to say he knew how Potter felt, but he feared he’d just make Potter angry. He didn’t know how to give Potter encouragement, when he didn’t have much hope left himself. But Potter wasn’t him, wasn’t some Dark-Marked criminal. Potter was the Savior of the Wizarding World. Surely he still had something to offer. 

Draco bit his lip again, choosing his words carefully. “You’ve done a lot of good though, Potter. It stands to reason you could do a lot more. You defeated  _ Voldemort,  _ for Merlin’s sake.” He didn’t think bringing Potter’s fame into the equation would make him feel any better, but Potter at least had to feel some sense of pride after all he’d accomplished, didn’t he? 

But Potter just shook his head. “I was forced into the ring with Voldemort when I was a baby. The rest of it was mostly dumb luck, honestly.” 

“It wasn’t just luck, it had to take some courage, too. I have to hand it to you, Potter, you survived a lot. Are you really going to sit there and tell me it didn’t take guts?”

“I was scared witless, most of the time. But yeah, I made it, I guess. I can say that much for myself. Didn’t think I would, honestly.” 

“That had to take a toll on you.” 

Potter took another drink, winced. “Yeah. It sure did.” 

Draco cursed himself. Merlin, he was awful at cheering people up. He still wasn’t sure if trying to relate to Potter was a good idea, but he decided to chance it. “I wasn’t sure I’d survive either, you know.” 

Potter was still staring down, but there was something flickering across his face. 

“Working for Voldemort, the war, Azkaban, the Program, any of it. The future...even the present...barely feels real. I feel like I’m just...” Draco trailed off. 

“Just waiting for the next bad thing to happen,” Potter finished for him. 

“Yeah,” Draco said, with a small, defeated sigh. “Exactly.” It seemed relating to Potter hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all. From their past, Draco never would have guessed he’d have anything in common with the Boy Who Lived, but here they were, sitting on the same kitchen floor, with the same bitter emptiness inside. Holding onto reality with white knuckles, waiting for life to take another swing at them. Trying to ignore the gnawing sense that something wicked was headed their way, while simultaneously praying they’d be strong enough to face it. 

Draco looked at Potter, at the man who had been there so many times in the past few days, pulling Draco up when he was at his lowest, making him feel human again. Desperately trying to make Draco believe he had a future. Draco couldn’t stand seeing him like this. He might not have much hope left himself, but he’d be damned if he’d sit here and watch Potter sink into the depths of despair. 

He stood, abruptly, and pulled the bottle from Potter’s hand. Potter’s startle was slightly delayed. He looked up at Draco with red eyes, raising an eyebrow. Draco ignored him, slamming the bottle down on the counter and pulling down a glass. 

He filled it from the tap and held it out to Potter. “Here, drink this instead.” 

To his surprise, Potter obeyed rather than arguing, draining the glass and handing it back. 

Draco took the empty glass from Potter’s fingers, and extended his other hand. “Come on, Mr. Savior of the Wizarding World. Let’s get you some coffee.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much a n g s t in this one. Harry has been repressing his issues for a long time in this fic, and Draco is still trying to figure out how to be a friend, so it's kind of slow going.  
> I'm trying to update consistently, I swear, but if my inspiration just isn't there it won't be very fun to read, you know?   
> Love you all <3 thanks for sticking around and as always please tell me what you thought <3


	23. In which Harry has some much-needed company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally changed the title, the old one just didn't feel right. It's from the song of the same name by the Cars, if you're curious.   
> Sometimes you just don't know until you start writing what kind of tone a story is going to have, so sorry for the switch <3

Harry sat at the kitchen table, his chin in his hand, watching as a slightly blurry Draco Malfoy swept around his kitchen, starting the coffee maker and fixing a bologna sandwich. 

Eventually, Draco set the plate down in front of Harry, along with a mug of coffee. “Rat meat pancake between two slices of bread, just what the doctor ordered.” 

Harry managed a smile and took a bite. It tasted like nothing, but food was probably a good idea. 

Draco sat down across from him, holding his own mug in his hand, running a thumb over the rim. 

“You not going to eat?” Harry asked, through a mouthful of sandwich. 

Draco just shrugged. 

Harry finished off the sandwich and stared down into his steaming coffee, thinking about his conversation with Ron, replaying it over and over in his head. He shouldn’t have hung up on Ron, he’d probably just made it worse. And getting drunk hadn’t helped either, not this time. Instead it just made the past feel closer. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Draco asked softly. 

Harry shrugged. “Not really, honestly.”

Draco took a sip of coffee, holding the cup in both hands and regarding Harry over the rim of it with his cold blue eyes. “How  _ are _ you feeling?” he said, with what sounded like genuine curiosity. 

Harry shrugged again. “Just tired.” 

“Maybe you should get some rest. We did stay up all night.” 

“Don’t think I could.” That strange, intangible sensation of dread was hanging in his head like a heavy fog tonight. Even if he managed to fall asleep, he feared it would just be full of nightmares. 

Draco’s hands were shaking; he set the mug down on the table. He swallowed, and scooted his chair a tiny bit closer, clearing his throat. “Um, I’ll admit I don’t know much about... _ friendship--”  _ he spat the word out like it was something sharp-- “but even I can tell you need help, so if…if there’s something I can do…” he trailed off, his face twisted, his gaze fixed on the table. 

“You’ve done a lot already. Thanks, for the uh...dinner.” 

The corner of Draco’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Something other than pancakes, at least.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, attempting to smile back. 

“Do you...do you want to be alone?” 

Harry shook his head emphatically, feeling dizzy. That prickly feeling on the back of his neck, the tense feeling that something awful was just around the corner, grinning and waiting for a fight--it was growing ever stronger, like patient fingers around his throat, waiting to get him alone so it could wring the life out of him. 

“Oh. Okay.” Draco’s voice was strained. 

“But if you want to go...I don’t know, do something, or get some rest, that’s...that’s fine, I’ll be okay,” Harry said hurriedly. He didn’t want to force his literal prisoner to sit here and listen to him whine about his problems. 

Draco just laughed, soft and sad. “I think you’ve spent enough time alone.” 

“But you don’t have to--I mean, it’s fine, I don’t want you to feel…obligated to listen to me going on about stuff that's long since over.” 

“It doesn’t look like it’s over.” 

Harry winced. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling his eyes prickling again. “I wish it were.” 

“Well, clearly it’s not, so perhaps you could come up with a better strategy than trying to drown it in a bottle.” 

Harry huffed at him. “It works, sometimes.” 

“But not tonight?” 

Harry shook his head, dropping his face into his hands. The walls in his brain were fading tonight, letting the memories that usually lurked in the background work their way to the surface, so vivid he could almost smell them: the cool black walls of the Ministry, the dank tunnels where he’d fought the basilisk, the dark, musty broom cupboard he’d spent so many days and nights in. 

“Maybe you ought to remind yourself where you are. That you’re safe.” 

“I don’t want to feel safe,” Harry said, surprising himself. 

“But you have to know...rationally, that you are, right?” 

“Can’t shake the feeling, though.” 

“And what do you think would happen if you fought back a little? Told your thoughts they’re wrong?” 

“I told you,” Harry mumbled, “I don’t have it in me.” 

“You’re a Gryffindor, Potter. I’m willing to bet you’ve still got some fight left.” 

Harry looked up at him. “You know, the hat almost put me in Slytherin?” 

“Makes some sense,” Draco said. “You’ve been surprisingly adept at guessing my emotions, my motivations.” Draco gave him a mischievous smirk. “You could probably be decent at manipulation, if you tried it. Combine that with your fame...you could have everyone wrapped around your finger you know, if you wanted to.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Harry replied flatly. That had never been what he wanted. He’d always just wished everyone would stop looking at him. 

“Why didn’t it?” Draco asked finally. “The hat, I mean. Why didn’t it put you in Slytherin?” 

“I practically begged it not to, that’s why.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “So you  _ chose _ Gryffindor.” 

“Well, everybody said it was the best, and I  _ really _ didn’t want to be in Slytherin--especially after meeting you,” Potter finished, giving him a wry smile. 

Draco huffed in frustration. “My  _ point  _ is, you pitted yourself against the dark arts, against those who seek fame and power, the moment you got to Hogwarts. The fight didn’t choose you--you chose it.” 

“I suppose I did get myself into a hell of a lot of trouble. But trouble has a way of finding me.” Harry thought back to his years at Hogwarts. He’d never spent an uneventful one, and looking back on it, half the time it had been his own fault, digging into something that seemed  _ off  _ to him, or simply being unable to avoid standing up to people. Then again, the dark never seemed to leave him alone. He’d been marked for death by Voldemort as a child, the dark’s influence plain as the scar on his forehead. 

Draco leaned back in his chair. “You’re a good person, Potter. There’s a reason you’re considered a hero--and it’s not just because you’re the Chosen One. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Maybe this is how all heroes end up, sooner or later.” 

“What, alone?” 

“It’s a lonely job,” Harry said heavily. 

Draco let out a strangled sigh of frustration. “This brings us inevitably back to the fact that you  _ have _ friends.” 

“I do...I just…” Harry dropped his head into his hands again, struggling to find the words to explain what he was feeling through a still-hazy fog of liquor. “Sometimes I don’t know if they get it. What it’s like to be...alone, in my head.” 

“Have you tried explaining it to them?” 

Harry swallowed thickly, mumbled through his hands. “It would just sound like I was whining, like I didn’t appreciate them. I  _ do _ appreciate them, they’ve always been there for me, even when everyone else was against me. And I know they still are, it’s just...” He trailed off, feeling guilty. Draco  _ didn’t _ have friends, didn’t have much of a support network at all, even if he weren’t isolated in Harry’s house. 

“You said your abusive guardians locked you in a broom closet, right?” 

Harry looked up, startled. He’d forgotten he’d told Draco that; he was even more surprised that Draco remembered. “Um, yeah,” he said, a little embarrassed. 

“Sounds like a lot of time alone,” Draco said softly. 

Harry took a sip of coffee; it tasted bitter. It wasn’t just the damn broom cupboard, although that was where it all started. It was all those hot, lonely summers, all those dreams and visions that woke him up in a cold sweat, all the times he’d faced Voldemort alone, seen the dark up close, been used as a conduit for Voldemort’s thoughts. It was trekking through a dark forest, knowing he was walking into his own execution.

It was those lonely nights he’d spent staring into the Mirror of Erised, looking at his parents’ faces and wishing more than anything that they could be there, that he could reach out and touch them, just once. 

The loneliness ran deep, and on nights like these, it turned from its usual cold, dull ache into something sharper, something with teeth, something that told him he was better off this way. 

Harry stared down into his coffee, wishing Draco hadn’t taken the bottle away from him. He just wanted to drink himself into a stupor so he could finally shut his eyes without nightmares and memories coming back to torment him. 

Draco scraped his chair back across the floor abruptly, and rose. “C’mon,” he said, reaching out his hand to rest it lightly on Harry’s shoulder. “You should lay down. Even if you don’t sleep.” 

Harry was curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, watching Draco try to light a fire with no magic. There were a lot of colorful wizard swear words being thrown that Harry had never heard before. 

“Oh, Slytherin’s ball sack--” Draco muttered, as the flames he’d managed to kindle in the crumpled newspapers died once again. He sat back on his heels and looked at Harry. “Feel like helping, or do you find this too amusing?” 

Harry rubbed his eyes, chuckling, and sleepily pulled out his wand. “ _ Incendio.”  _

Draco leaned back as the spell whizzed past him. “Nearly lit my hair on fire--” He sighed as the logs burst into flame. “Thanks.” 

Harry rolled over to stare at the fire, feeling slightly comforted. The fireplace at the Dursleys had spent most of its life boarded up, and now that he had his own, lighting a fire always made the dreary old house feel more like home. 

Draco leaned back against the couch. “Feel any better?” he asked. 

“I’m alright. How are  _ you _ feeling? Any better yourself?” Draco had certainly had a rough morning, and Harry realized he’d been too caught up in his own drama to ask. 

Draco curled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “I’m fine. You’re deflecting.” 

“I’m  _ not _ deflecting, just worried.” 

“I’m a little worried, too.” Draco tore his gaze away from the fire and looked over at Harry. “People aren’t meant to be alone, you know. It’s not good for you.” 

Harry looked away. 

“You should call Ron.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“It really is, Potter. Whatever you two argued about, just apologize. The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.” 

Draco was right, and Harry knew it. But… “I don’t know what I’d say. It would just be...me whining.” 

“Then call him and whine. He’s your friend, isn’t he? He’ll listen.” 

Harry huffed. “Maybe...maybe I will.” 

Draco opened his mouth, and then shut it again. “Alright. I won’t push it. But you really should.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Harry stared into the fire again. “I just...I hung up on him.” 

“What?” 

“I left the call, basically mid-sentence.” 

Draco sighed. “Apologize. I’m sure he’ll forgive you, you ignored him for how long and you’re still talking?” 

Harry could feel Draco staring at him; he stared resolutely into the flames. 

“He cares about you. I could tell.” Draco’s voice was uncharacteristically warm.

“I know,” Harry said, trying to convince himself of the fact. It was hard to believe people cared sometimes, when they weren’t there. They felt almost like ghosts. 

Draco laid down on the floor. Harry glanced down at his blond head, at his pale, pinched face, lit by the fire’s flickering light. The company was nice, he had to admit. Even if they hadn’t been friends for very long, they were close enough now where just laying here, in silence, was strangely comfortable. 

Harry felt a twinge of guilt. Draco was only here because he was stuck on Harry’s property; he’d probably rather be anywhere else. Anywhere besides Azkaban, at least. 

“You don’t have to stay down here, if you don’t want to, you know, really…” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Draco said. He rolled over onto his back to look up at Harry. “You’ll just have to put up with me.” 

“Damn.” Harry chuckled softly. “Look at the two of us, enduring each other’s company.” 

Draco gave him a soft, sad smile. “You know, before I was forced to get to know you better, I imagined you’d have a giant ego. Everyone in the wizarding world thinks of you as this legendary hero, and I guess I figured that must go to your head. I never expected…” 

“Never expected what?” 

Draco shook his head, staring at the ceiling. “All people ever talk about is your accomplishments. I guess I never thought about the cost.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, letting out a heavy breath. “I don’t think I even realized it myself, at the time.” 

“Me neither,” Draco replied, his voice quiet and bitter. 

Harry stared down at Draco, knowing he was beating himself up in his head again. “We really were just a couple of dumb kids.” 

“Yeah. Except you were a hero, and I was…” 

“You did some bad things. Doesn’t mean you can’t do some good.” 

Draco swallowed, his jaw clenched. “I hope so,” he said finally. 

It was the first time Harry had heard him say anything even slightly hopeful. Harry felt himself smiling. “You’ve already helped me. Thanks, for listening.” 

“Well, you always listen to me, when I’m whining about all my...issues.” 

“Still, thanks.” 

Draco was quiet, for a long moment. “You’re welcome,” he said softly. 

Harry rolled over onto his back and shut his eyes. It took him a long, long time to sleep, but when he did, it was dreamless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Harry angst, hope you enjoyed.   
> I feel like this chapter sucks but I feel that way about every chapter so who knows. The next one will probably be fluffier cause it's been a hell of a week and I'm in the mood to write something happy.   
> Anyway, thank you all for staying with this story <3 I appreciate it so much.


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